


Bonds Remade

by halocentury



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Butch Gilzean lives - for now, Canonical Character Death, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Sex, Death of Alpha, Derogatory Language, Derogatory Language Towards an Omega, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Oswald Cobblepot, Omega Suffering Trauma from Alpha's Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Season 5, Season 5 Flexible, Tabitha Galavan too, Time Frame Variants 4.18-4.22, Unexplained Medical Trauma, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unwanted Sexual Advances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halocentury/pseuds/halocentury
Summary: When Oswald first presented as an Omega, he had his mother to help him. When he became pregnant, he only had himself.Or so he thought.*It wasn't his first time at Arkham, but different circumstances and a longer sentence doesn't bode well for Oswald. Except he wouldn't know that until after the phone call with Jim, as he's requested to steer the blimp towards the river.And then eight hours later, when he wakes up for the second time in hospital.Chapter oneUnwanted sexual advances occur but go no further. Consensual Jerome/Oswald, but due to the nature of heats, could be considered dubious consent.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jerome Valeska
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't consider myself widely knowledgeable about omegaverse. I have read omegaverse fic but as far as writing it, this is a first for me. I will be taking a few liberties which I hope will not offend.
> 
> "Consensual but not safe or sane." Seems apt for many a thing that happens in Arkham.
> 
> Scenes taking place in _italics_ are flashbacks.

Perhaps he had been a little hasty, yet up in the blimp, waiting for instructions on how to land, Oswald had a lot of time to think. A few thoughts briefly reflected on the fact that high above the city, it was almost peaceful, ignoring the fact that he didn’t know much about operating the blimp. He knew how to steer, that didn’t take too much taxing of his mind and body, and once he was comfortable with the motions, it was very relaxing, with the engines keeping him afloat above the noisy streets. 

The city looked so different from above, the skyscrapers less stark when twilight crept in. Office lights dimmed while the lights from houses and apartments lit up parts of the downtown core, then further out into the outskirts of the city, along the riverfront and into residential neighbourhoods. 

It was also quite comforting, from the angle, that he wasn’t plummeting into the river for once. Rising instead of falling, a pleasant change. 

It didn’t change the fact that he wouldn’t have been on the blimp had it not been for Jerome.

During his most recent incarceration at Arkham he hadn’t intended to make any alliances with the locals. As soon as he was delivered to his cell he fully intended to silently lick his wounds. If it hadn’t been for Sofia and Victor, and for Jim believing in them, he wouldn’t be back behind the gates. 

He hadn’t known that Jerome had been watching him from afar, absorbed in his own suffering. There was nothing to keep him motivated, the Asylum was as bleak as it always had been, and he ignored the various antics that surrounded him. The one thing he was grateful for was Professor Strange’s absence. He would have made everything even worse.

When Jerome finally approached him he hadn’t been too concerned, even when the younger man expressed his disappointment. He was depressed, though he hadn’t said that word aloud. 

That didn’t deter Jerome at all. 

Jerome dragged him into his cadre of hooligans and Horribles, to join them or, failing that, entertain them. At first it was the last thing he wanted to do, but knowing that there were far more volatile prisoners in Arkham to avoid, taking safety in their numbers wasn’t the worst thing. Jerome and his friends were crazy, but they didn’t eye him up and down as though looking for the juiciest part of his body to carve into. 

Jerome was the kind of crazy to scare off even those who regularly carried around a shiv.

And apparently taking several swings at Jerome cemented their friendship.

He only thought it would be a temporary alliance, and not extending into hosting a brunch for the Legion of Horribles.

Had he never doubted, had he never phoned Jim, he would’ve done something to work things out between them. Jerome proved to be cunning when he had a goal in mind, made evident when he successfully tracked down his brother. He had coordinated the attack on the city, with roles assigned to everyone. Oswald just couldn’t guarantee how much Jerome had planned for the long-term, if they could create a balance. 

When he said he was scared, he hadn’t been entirely truthful. It wasn’t Jerome the person he was scared of, it was the uncertainty; the loose ends of unknown plans and no foreseeable future, and the thought of taking on a partner when he had already lost three people, all who he once trusted. It just didn’t sit well with him. 

At that moment, high above Gotham, he could feel his stomach clench so hard he hissed and held in a breath, taking one hand off the controls to flatten it over the worst of the pains.

Starting to feel lightheaded, he forced himself to breathe out slowly, extending his hand to regrip the steering device, keeping the blimp steady over the course of the river. Waited for Jim to phone him with instructions on how to deal with the blimp and the weapons of mass insanity within.

Dealing with that indignation, along with the queasy feeling in his stomach, he took to deep breaths, in and out, to calm down and ease the sensation as it continued to coil around his insides. 

He managed to keep it up for a minute, when a blinding pain ripped from belly to sternum. 

He jolted, crying and buckling to his knees, gripping his stomach, blinking through spotty white flashes before his eyes and the tears that soaked his lashes. 

It was the sudden lurch of the nose of the blimp, surging down and right at a sharp decline, that had him stumbling to his feet, grabbing the steering controls, pulling it back and steering left, heaving and feeling more tears soaking his cheeks.

Spasms continued to contract through his stomach, leaving him to gasp, then fumble for his pocket for his phone, now ringing.

“Oswald, what’s happening up there? You nearly crashed into the Waterfront Hotel!”

He bit his lip hard, a whine barely escaping, which was a lot better than the wail of pain that was trying to claw its way out. “I need to land this blimp, why haven’t you gotten in touch with me sooner? I need—” 

The subsequent groan was louder than his whine, even while clenching his teeth.

Jim’s tone gentled in a way he had never heard, at least as far as directing it to him. “Are you okay? You don’t sound well.”

Broken bones and bullet wounds hadn’t forced him into hospital; he was conscious, despite the pain in his stomach, and the way his shoulders were hitching, fighting back the need to sob. Why, he couldn’t fathom, but he shook his head. “I’m fi-ine,” he assured him, though the second word petered out on a gasp and a subsequent gritted breath. 

“I’m calling in paramedics, and… I’ll find out who we need to call in to dismantle the bombs and land that blimp.” He could make out Jim yelling Harvey’s name, but didn’t expect to hear what the other detective had to say. “Just… hold tight.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” After having the blimp steer off-course, he was holding onto the controls with one tight hand, the other gripping his phone, even though he’d rather be curled up on the floor, clenching his stomach, regardless how dirty the floor had to be. 

There was a pause before Jim chuckled. “Oh. Yeah, you’re doing pretty good up there.” 

He wanted to beg him to be quick, the pain starting to erode at the steel of his resolve. He needed to close his eyes, the pain concentrated in his stomach but an ache creeping into the rest of his body, making him feel weak, physically and emotionally. It was taking too much out of him to remain standing, hands shaking on the controls.

Instead he choked on a laugh, another sharp spasm shooting through his belly, because, this penguin did learn how to fly. “Does this mean I’ve earned a commendation from the GCPD?”

“If you disarm those bombs yourself, I’ll give you the commendation myself,” Jim added, unable to keep the amusement out of his response.

Smiling despite a ragged breath, almost a snort, he nodded, closing his eyes before opening them wide, staring into the darkening sky. “I’m afraid I can’t do that for you.”

He had no measure of time to determine how much longer he followed the river. He didn’t tear his gaze away from the controls, needing to keep to a safe distance from the buildings on both sides of the river. It wasn’t until he got a call from an unknown number that he patched it through to speakerphone, despite the exhaustion seeping deeper into his blood. 

He was several minutes away from the clearing they designated for landing, police cruisers, bomb squad vans and ambulance far enough back that even if he managed a rough landing based on the instructions from the air control operators they contacted. 

The landing crew present did more of the physical work as he did his best to level off the blimp. It took too much concentration than he was currently capable of, the spasms no better than they were when they started almost an hour ago. Night had fallen, spotlights and vehicle headlights helping him to zero in on the space provided for the blimp.

He had all intentions to hold his hands above his head as he stumbled, rather than limped, off the blimp, prepared to be shipped away to Arkham yet again. Yet in his current state, tired and in agony, he barely took three steps through the uneven grass before tripping and falling. 

He should’ve been grateful that it was Jim who got to him first, grasping him by the arm and preparing to support him under his shoulders to help him forward, but when he tilted his head against Jim’s shoulder, Jim nearly recoiled. 

“You’re burning up,” he accused, bringing his free hand up to feel his forehead. “You definitely need the hospital.”

“I just need to rest.” He managed to speak without stilted gaps between his words and various sounds of pain, but it all failed when he stumbled and threw up in the grass, thankfully avoiding his and Jim’s shoes. It was Jim’s arm dropping to his waist that kept him from landing face first to the ground, which refused to budge when he tried to push it away, Jim holding tighter as he yelled for the paramedics. “I’m fine.” His mouth felt as rank as the smell that wafted up to him but he refused to cringe further. “It’s been a stressful day, I just want to go-“

What he wanted to say, he never finished, body sagging, eyes rolling and closing as his head dropped forward.

*

He woke up far too soon for his liking, but at least the pain had lessened in the time he was sleeping. He would’ve liked to have kept sleeping, head foggy and chest heavy. His pain wasn’t currently along his chest, he found, when he tried to touch it. Something tugged at his arm, prompting him to open his eyes. 

A small device was fitted over his index finger, connected to a machine somewhere behind him to his left that was quietly, regularly, beeping. An intravenous was inserted into his arm, feeding out of two bags. None of it looked too alarming, at least based on how his anxiety wasn’t spiking with the discovery. What drugs they were feeding him he didn’t know, and felt safer not inquiring about, at least for the time being. 

To his right, on the mattress within reaching distance, was the call button.

He hesitated for only a few seconds before pressing the button. 

A nurse entered a couple of minutes later, nodding her head to him with a small smile. “I hope you’re feeling better Mr. Cobblepot.”

“I assume you pulled the short straw out of all the nurses on shift tonight. Don’t feel compelled to be nice to me,” he instructed her, trying to get comfortable again against the pillow, unaccustomed to having it and the mattress raised. 

“From what I’ve heard, you did something of a favour for the city for once,” she remarked, one pale eyebrow raising as she regarded him.

“Ah, does that mean I have a visitor or two waiting for me?” He hadn’t wanted to see Jim, at least not this soon. He owed the detective, if he decided to claim a favour from him in return, at the least deserving his thanks. 

“There was a Jim Gordon who was waiting for word to see if you were doing better. And he did say he would be by in the morning for questioning,” she explained, looking at the monitor behind him before recording something on a clipboard that she picked up from the foot of his bed. “How can I help you?” 

“I wanted to find out when I might be released.” Apparently he wouldn’t be out tonight if Jim was coming by tomorrow. Pursing his lips he tried to relax, folding his hands over his lap. “And… what is my condition? I have no idea what happened to me earlier but it was-”

He didn’t want to say it was excruciating. He had a near-death experience before, the pain sharp but dulled by the river. What followed he couldn’t account for.

This, had it not been for the drugs that were feeding into his bloodstream, he believed he should still be suffering. His body and mind craved release, but from what, he was no closer to knowing.

The nurse set the clipboard back down, her demeanour somehow changed. The pleasant smile had shifted to one of sympathy and she moved closer. “When was the last time you’ve been to a doctor?”

He tilted his head, not really sheepish, but knowing the answer wasn’t one she wanted. “I last saw a dentist a year ago, a doctor…. I wouldn’t know for sure. The last time I was treated for an ailment, I was under the care of a naturopath.”

“You dislike doctors that much?” she inquired, not as offended as he expected her to be. 

“Until today, I have been fortunate that I didn’t require hospitalization.” It was after saying that that he tensed up, taking in her posture: close enough to comfort, and taking a breath before readying to speak again. He cut her off, eyes widening. “Am – am I in need of urgent care?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking, you are for the most part healthy. Which is a good thing based on your blood tests.” There was a seat beside the bed but she remained standing, relaxing her shoulders and taking a quick breath. “Mr. Cobblepot, you are pregnant.”

The door was still open, for which he nearly glared at her, jerking his head towards the doorway; the least she could’ve done was lower her voice. “It would be best, for myself as well as yourself, if you either close the door or lower your voice for this conversation.”

“The door is staying open. One good deed doesn’t change a criminal.” She did oblige, with a hint of a smirk, and lowered her voice. “No one is outside in the hallway, though the nurse’s station is nearby. Your records will be kept strictly confidential.” 

“Nothing remains secret in Gotham, not for long.” Rubbing his temple, he shook his head before bringing his attention back to her. “I have been on suppressants since I presented, over twenty years ago. If anyone knew of my… gender, I would’ve been on an entirely different track. This is impossible.”

Certainly, if Fish had known, she would’ve baited him for a different purpose. He had seen a number of Omegas, young men and women, in several of her clubs, some informants, all sex workers. 

He specialized in learning other people’s secrets, but he had other goals in mind. So he had to find a way to hide his Omega status from Fish, and in time, all of the criminal world of Gotham City.

He went through his first heat under his mother’s scrutiny, kept safe in their apartment. Off ‘sick’ from school, he spent the three days in his bedroom until he knuckled it out, quite literally. When he was back in his right state of mind, he had gone to the local pharmacy with the prescription his mother had provided along with her own note. Her medical records, recorded under Kapleput, still listed the suppressant as her own prescription; at the time, having been forcibly separated from his father, and after giving birth to him, the doctor she had seen at the clinic had been sympathetic to her plight.

The pharmacist, recognising the name on the form, inquired into her health, which Oswald had answered, implying that she decided to go back on the pills, explaining that she wanted them now that she was taking on a part time job. Necessary precaution now that she didn’t spend most of her days at home. Oswald relied on her prescription for a full year until he found a few reliable dealers, alternating between them to not become a routine for anyone else to pick up on his status. 

Once he usurped Fish, and took up the seat vacated by Falcone, he established a direct line of suppressants, mislabelled in amongst the limited wares that he shipped into the city, something that he kept in a hidden safe within the Falcone mansion, and subsequently the Van Dahl mansion. As far as he knew, no one was ever the wiser.

“Is there any chance you missed taking your suppressants?” 

“No.” He had taken them the past several days, since his return from – oh. “Oh no. I was in Arkham, for over two months. I didn’t have any on me then, but I didn’t have my heat – I would’ve remembered that.”

“May I ask, would this be your second heat – potentially, if it happened – that you have experienced?” Oswald nodded in response to her question, tired all over again. It would be ideal if he was sleeping, that this was all a drug-induced nightmare. “Heats are primal things, as a base urge to find intimacy, or to bear-children. It’s not uncommon for one’s mental state to not be at its highest function. Can you recall, do you have any gaps in your memory, during your stay at Arkham?”

“My memory rarely fails me. The things I know, they stick, I don’t forget – I don’t get gaps,” he insisted, but that didn’t help in anyway to determine when and how this happened. It clearly did happen, she said the blood tests showed it. 

“Coming off of suppressants, the first few heats are going to be… a struggle to get through. They are more intense, the hormones in addition to how your body reacts to them. Your body needs time to readjust to the hormones. As a result, it’s common for your memory to be spotty,” she added before resting her hand briefly on his arm. It helped, centering him for the time being. He remembered how unprepared he was for his first heat, how scared he was until his mother explained it all to him in the days after. “It’s been a stressful day for you, being on the blimp in addition to the news. Worrying yourself over it won’t be good for you or your baby. If you have any more questions, I’ll be at the nurse’s desk. We’re going to keep you overnight but you’ll be allowed to go home by tomorrow afternoon.”

Once she left he forced himself to recount his days spent at Arkham. Those first six weeks he spent most of his time in his cell, nothing noteworthy to remember. Even recalling his days since Jerome approached him nothing stood out.

His subconscious had a different perspective, when he drifted back to sleep. Not a dream or nightmare, the images were vivid as though they had actually happened. 

_He was exhausted. The prison sheets were always too thin and scratchy, a pale substitute for the sheets that lined all the beds at his mansion, but for once he felt overheated rather than cold, burrowing into the thin mattress, craving the comforting blankets of home, thick and protective._

_He squeezed his eyes shut despite the buzzer going through the cell block, ringing louder and grating. He never got enough sleep, not as much as he wanted, but today it was too much to put up with._

_Releasing one arm from around his pillow, he dragged his fingers through his sweaty hair, shocked by the dampness he felt. Swept his hand over his face, feeling moisture beading also along his forehead and nose._

_When had he fallen ill? Just another failing of the Arkham Asylum. Packing them in like cattle, small sleeping cells and subpar hygiene standards. He’d been lucky that he hadn’t gotten sick sooner._

_Sighing and gripping his hair he rolled onto his back, startling when he felt the sweat between his legs, slowly trickling into the sheets._

_His brain was sluggish, not as sharp as it usually was, which he wanted to blame on being sick._

_Yet something didn’t quite register, the parts all fitting together wrong. He was missing something, though what it was, he couldn’t pinpoint._

_While he racked his brain he was unaware of the motions of his body, the seductive curl that twined and twisted in his belly in time with his hips, the moisture soaking his bedsheets not sweat but something else entirely, a complex scent that didn’t register to his own senses even as it ran thicker, sticking to his skin._

_“Get up Penguin, breakfast! This isn’t room service.” One of the guards stood in front of his cell, blocking the open door but waiting for him to get up._

_“I’m sick,” Oswald protested, hating how his voice cracked, throat dry and parched. “I feel awful.”_

_His arm half-positioned over his face, he didn’t see the guard’s face as he took in his stretched-out body, the tilt that his hips stopped at, how he gaped at the sliver of skin along his belly. A rosy pink in comparison to how pale his complexion usually was._

_“Bill, I told you to get him--”_

_Oswald heard the second guard but didn’t move to sit up._

_“Shit.”_

_“Yeah,” Bill murmured, his tone quite different from when he first greeted him. Oswald didn’t spend long wondering about that, drifting in and out, lightheaded and thirsty and so very hot._

_“We need to get him out now. Let the other guards get all the inmates to the mess hall, then take him straight to medical. How did they not know?”_

_“He had to be taking suppressants. Otherwise they would’ve had him in the other wing.”_

_“Alright, stand guard while I make sure the way is clear.”_

_The guard shuffled away and his too slow brain kicked into gear._

_Suppressants?_

_He breathed in sharply as his hips bucked up, not noticing the guard adjusting his uniform, namely unfastening his belt and hastening to undo buttons and zipper._

_His goddamn **heat**._

_His eyes flew open as he sat up, only to be shoved down by a meaty hand on his chest._

_He mewled, body wanting to obey, registering the heavy scent of an Alpha in his proximity, but it lasted for all of two seconds before he snarled, clawing at the guard’s face and slamming his knee up into his gut. Both efforts, combined, had the guard falling off the narrow cot._

_His underwear was soaked, he quickly realised, when he stood up; he scrambled for his pants, pulling them on but not able to get to his shoes or striped shirt before the guard grabbed for his ankle, nearly pulling him down on him. Oswald still had the better position, able to twist and kick his heel into the guard’s chin, enough force to bang his head to the cement floor, all while holding his hand against the wall for balance._

_“Guard? Anyone!” Bill was getting to his feet, stumbling after him, where he stood and yelled in the doorway of his cell. He lunged and missed, to which Oswald darted into the hall, to the left, but realising that left him cornered, he ducked another attempt as Bill tried to grab him by his undershirt._

_His leg was not meant for running but he couldn’t remain an unmoving target, yelling for help that wasn’t around._

_He ran, grabbing for the wall to keep upright, hobbling when his leg wanted to give out, somehow keeping enough distance from Bill to be out of grabbing range._

_The other guard mentioned medical if he heard him right, which meant that he needed to get there, but the medical wing was too far away, and he was closer to the mess hall, which at least had more people inside than the empty hallways. Bill’s fingers slid over his upper arm, nearly taking hold, and did manage a decent scratch, three pink lines drawn in their wake, before Oswald grabbed the mess hall barred door, catching it and squeezing through it before sliding it locked tight._

_He turned around, laughing at Bill’s face, flushed and aroused, angry for being deprived of his body, but that was before he faced the seated crowd he now stood amongst. Conversation and eating had stopped, though a few noses twitched. A collective inhale seemed to happen all at once, in the first two rows of tables, some men getting to their feet as they realised where the smell, Omega pheromones, was coming from._

_Two guards were in the mess hall, stationed at far ends, while he stood in the middle, four men advancing – no, swaggering towards him. Oswald covered his mouth and nose, gagging on the scent of Alpha, dumbing the immediate area. In their world, he should’ve been throwing himself at them, one of them, whoever won the match. Two of them were already eyeing one another for a fight, one shouldering past the man who had been ahead of him._

_It was instinct of survival that had him biting the arm of the hand that grabbed him first, hard enough to get a snarl of protest and making him recoil. Oswald didn’t try to deflect further, hobbling his best run towards the table that he knew was always occupied by the same crowd._

_Too bad he didn’t get there without another stumble, someone sticking their foot out from where they were seated at the end of a table. Oswald fell on his bad knee, yelling out in pain, which got the attention of everyone in the mess hall, regardless how far away they were from the commotion, started by him, and the chase began._

_He pulled away just in time from someone grabbing the back of his shirt, but even as he dodged, fell and tried getting up again, started one way and darted down or back the way he came, more people were joining the game, chasing and blocking, and shouting jeers. He blinked back tears, humiliation warring over the way he knew everyone could smell his heat, spreading through the room._

_“Spread him open!”_

_“Who’s going to find out if penguin tastes like chicken?”_

_He spun around, feeling someone squeeze his ass hard, breath hitching, dizzying himself by moving too fast._

_“Share him!”_

_“Take him right here!”_

_Even with the undershirt, sleeveless, he was too hot, stomach clenching on a moan when someone else’s arm snaked around him._

_Someone snapped at his neck, a mocking sound rather than an actual bite, and he staggered away, from the chomping of teeth that continued after him, followed by laughter._

_“He deserves it!”_

_“Give it to him!”_

_“Should’ve known, look at him!”_

_“Give it up, like you were born to.”_

_He refused to dignify that, yelling or sobbing like he wanted to, jerking away from several people who were pushing him around a circle they had formed, letting him tumble through the one gap in the close-knit formation._

_At least they were having fun; the inmate he crashed into once he was through the circle was one of the first men who had been waiting at him at the door. His hands easily wrapped around his biceps and he started pulling him closer, getting ready to sling him bodily up into his arms._

_He didn’t know how he did it, but he reasoned it was his leg giving out that led to him falling sideways, not in the direction that either of them expected, instead sprawled out onto the laps of a bench full of observers._

_He was in the process of lifting himself up, about to duck under the table for safety, but it was arms wrapping around him, a familiar embrace, that prompted him to look up._

_Most of his weight was being supported by Jerome, and his green eyes danced merrily, until the man at the end of the table addressed them._

_“Hand him over,” he growled, already grabbing for his ankles, resting on the knee of the man sitting to the left of Jerome. Oswald tucked his legs closer, would’ve kicked the unwanted hand away first, but Jerome’s companion had his knife in hand faster, stabbing it in the provocateur’s arm._

_It was with a surge of alarm, and ducking his head closer to Jerome’s shoulder, in which he felt a soft flutter of breath along his neck, followed by the younger man twisting sharply into him, body tensing and arms circling tighter._

_Jerome didn’t let go, not for shifting in his spot. The man who held the knife moved to stand up, still holding it tight, ready to do more damage, but also giving Jerome room to stand, helping Oswald stand in the process._

_He didn’t want to say he was clinging to Jerome, so he made an effort to stand up straighter, glaring up at the stabbed man, as Jerome kept one arm around his waist, fingers gentle on his stomach. He tried to ignore how soothing his thumb felt, dragging slow distracting circles through the thin cotton of his undershirt._

_“You are lucky that I’m not the one holding the knife,” Jerome commented, tilting his head forward for emphasis to what could’ve sounded like a conversation starter, and not the threat it was. The next movement, so slight that only Oswald could feel it, was Jerome’s chin pressing down towards his temple._

_He swore that he could feel his breath against his scalp, not as hot as his burning skin, but feeling perfect paired with his hand on his side._

_“Kill him if he moves even an inch,” Jerome instructed, smirking when his friend laughed, jerking the knife ever so slightly._

_He should’ve been indignant for Jerome walking him through the mess hall, addressing the guard who soundlessly opened the gate for him, Jerome tipping an invisible hat brim as a gesture of thanks. Yet Oswald had intended to find Jerome. It was no accident that the game came to an abrupt end as soon as he crashed into his table._

_Very few people dared to go toe-to-toe with Jerome, and Oswald had hoped that he would be extended some assistance to get out of the mess hall safely, if he made it to Jerome before anyone else could grab him._

_“You need to hide your secrets away better, birdie.”_

_“It was never my intention.” He wanted to curl his arms tight across his chest, but it was a position awkward to assume, even when Jerome’s arm shifted higher, hand coming up to his elbow. “I am on suppressants, but last time I checked, Arkham doesn’t carry them.”_

_“There’s a reason why they have a separate wing for Omegas,” Jerome commented, guiding him through the hall. “As uncommon it is for criminals to be Omegas.”_

_“Oh, I refuse to be assigned limitations based on a subset of gender.” He held back most of the vitriol for even Jerome insinuating something as demeaning as that. The words were restrained even though his tone turned clipped. “Suppressants are just another means in letting me do my job. I wasn’t going to be relegated to someone else’s expectations, based on what they think an Omega should be delegated to.”_

_“Until you run out.”_

_Reflecting on it now, it was very odd that he didn’t experience the same thing when under Professor Strange’s care. A blessing really, considering the other things that man put him through. Perhaps it was the smaller window of opportunity, as opposed to now. Adding in the additional stressors, Zsasz and Sofia, the accusation that he would kill a child, anything was possible._

_“Never,” he snarled, a response seemingly directed to Jerome, though focussed on what his mind singled in on. He cleared his throat lightly, lifting his chin up. “I take care of myself, to prevent the situation from happening in the first place.”_

_For a moment Jerome’s hand tightened on his arm, even as he took a step away to give him a bit of space between their bodies. “To not have sex in the first place?”_

_“To choose what I’m going to do with my body.” He hadn’t expected to Jerome to be so blunt about the topic, but when he felt his gaze on him, he shrugged a shoulder, trying to look casual for the subject. “I was being chased through the mess hall. I refuse to let anyone get their hands on me without my say. And I refused to be a toy passed from one… cocksure Alpha to another.”_

_The sound that Jerome made was light, most likely aiming to be contemplative, but between his tight grip and the silence that dragged out between them, it packed weight, straining between them, waiting to break the delicate something that connected them. “So throwing yourself into my lap was just a part of your plan?” A glib response that didn’t match the judging twist of Jerome’s mouth._

_“That wasn’t my intended approach, but my hand was forced.” Falling over the three men, Jerome and the two men who flanked him, had been humiliating, but at least it put him at a distance from the aggressor. Hopefully he had a few more knife wounds since they departed the mess hall. “I did require your help, so I was going to come to your table, just not… upon your lap.”_

_“You were going to come to me.” Jerome guffawed, shook his head, squeezed him back to his side with a rough shake. “Nice story, try again. How many times have I had to play suitor to get you to pay attention to me? Too many times, birdie. You should’ve just gone to one of the guards.”_

_“That was how my problem started.” Only then, remembering the guard who he ran away from, he looked around the hall. Bill wasn’t in sight, either leaving to sulk in silence or avoiding Jerome as he escorted him. “I must’ve started my heat while I was sleeping, but the two guards who were trying to get me out of my cell this morning, one left to clear a path to medical so they wouldn’t be disturbed. The other guard was getting ready to… nominate himself for the task of aiding me in my heat.”_

_Jerome twisted his gaze away from him, the turn shifting it into something unreadable, only allowing him to try to gauge the narrowed set of Jerome’s eyes. “Which guard was that?” Jerome asked, a dangerous tone of curiosity._

_“Bill.” He couldn’t be sure if there was more than one Bill working in the asylum, he rarely paid attention to the guards. “I know what he looks like, I can avoid him for the next couple of days.”_

_“Avoid him?” Some of the tension ebbed from around his eyes but Jerome huffed, a mocking sound that curled around Oswald, lazy and demeaning like the sway of Jerome’s head. “The only place you’re going to, you’ll be staying in for the next… who knows how long, is your cell. You really have no concept of a heat? You’re going to be laid up until you’re hoisting your legs up.” There was no more humour, aggression biting down, drawing blood with teeth that felt old and rotted. “Everyone would be lining up to take a turn with you, any way you’d offer it. Night after night, into morning, not a spare second to yourself, until you’re trying to wash it off with the stench of cigarettes and alcohol. No, you’re better off locked up until the whole thing passes, no one will let you out, not some dirty Salvation Army reject-“_

_The knuckle-white grip on his arm was starting to leech into his arm, his own skin paling under Jerome’s hand, nails digging deep red lines, a spot of blood popping through the surface. Oswald didn’t cower, tried to swing his arm free, but the regression that gripped Jerome was tighter, a mental hold that overpowered the physical._

_“That,” he insisted, loudly, which at least cut the rant short. “Was why I came to you. You at least have control over the lunatics here.”_

_Jerome’s nails stopped cutting when confusion flashed over his features. “Me?”_

_“You underestimate your influence. Everyone here bucks against the Arkham regime of order, but your… unpredictability, your style of chaos, is both freeing and resolute.” He took a step forward to turn and face Jerome, his hand falling to his side allowing him to do so. “You incite craziness and still you succeed in stopping it dead in its tracks. As soon as you stood up to that guy back there, you regained – regaled in your element.”_

_“Pssh.” Jerome rolled his eyes, disbelieving, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. Disbelief to feigned modesty, neither lasted long, relishing the praise and grinning entirely. “Go on! Tell me more.”_

_“You’re unpredictable, but in here, that’s what I need.” His whole system of structure and order built a successful criminal world, but inside Arkham, it meant nothing. The asylum had Jerome, his hierarchy of crazy; Oswald hadn’t been in the state of mind to see it then, tried to resist it, but succumbing to it gave him a new perspective. “I didn’t realise it at first but… it felt good. I need that.”_

_“Everyone has a bit of crazy.” Jerome’s eyes widened as though needing to visually take in his response, smile tapering to something less extreme but still pleased when Oswald nodded his agreement. “You just need to know the right – trigger. To bring it to the surface.”_

_He lifted his hands to above his shoulders, no higher, fingers already in loose fists, but hoisted them higher and splayed his fingers wide, mouth shaping to create a silent but recognisable sound effect. An explosion._

_“Just like everyone has darkness in them.” Oswald heard people deny it; they refused to acknowledge that one moment of weakness was still a walk through they shadows before they found the light again. But there were people who were more comfortable in the obscurity of darkness, found strength and passion with cloaks and daggers. “It’s just a matter of how you use it. Darkness, craziness – it’s power, all of it.”_

_“All of it and more.” Jerome stepped forward, mouth still open, going through several motions including a fleeting grin until he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. When Jerome sucked in a breath Oswald expected a rejoinder, but settled when he felt his fingers step one by one, a flutter down his ribs, grabbing his waist and yanking him forward._

_A shiver rattled down his spine, making it too easy to curl forward._

_Given a focus, finding the right kind of tether to ground him, and he was able to forget the reason why he ran from his cell._

_When Jerome leaned down to whisper against his ear, his nose brushed against Jerome’s neck, and the scent that assailed him was one of an Alpha._

_“So you like how good crazy feels?” Jerome’s voice was a purr against his ear, hot to match his ratchetting temperature. He nodded, breath catching in his chest. “Do you want more crazy?”_

_Both hands squeezed at his waist. He wanted to bury himself face-first into Jerome but he slowly twisted, searching for Jerome’s gaze, a little wild but firm enough to convey the need for an answer. “Yes,” Oswald rasped, resettling against him._

_“What if…. You want someone to play with your darkness?” He nipped at his ear, chuckled as he moved to nose along his cheekbone, lips dry on his cheek. “Not some… miscreant game of chase the birdie. They had their fun. Now it’s just the two of us – and I can give you all the help you want.” Kissed the corner of his mouth. “I am going to get a lapful of you and give you a whole lot more.”_

_There was very little space between them, and though it was Jerome who bit at his lip, Oswald grabbed the nape of his neck for leverage and claimed the next few bites, delving deeper, hungrier until Jerome was rushing and pushing him backwards down the hallway, trying to grab his thigh for the support to make up the distance they still needed, faster._

_His back shoved up against Jerome’s cell door, they stumbled inside. Fists at the shoulders of Jerome’s shirt, he stretched at the fabric until Jerome let go of him long enough, their clothing abandoned on the floor as they pulled them off one another in all haste. He still had his underwear on when Jerome spun, pushed him to sit on the bed and clamoured on top of him. Shoved the notebook that stuck briefly to his back to the floor, a pen rolling around noisily._

_“Last chance to back out,” Jerome warned, hoisting himself up onto his hands and knees, lips kiss-wet and swollen and eyes nearly black._

_He grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling down his Alpha and rolling his hips up against Jerome’s. “You want the lapful now or later?”_

_“Oh, let me look into my schedule.” Jerome reached for his notebook, sat up on his haunches to page through several sheets, humming with each subsequent turn, before throwing it over the shoulder. “What do you know, I’m absolutely free!”_

He woke up with a loud gasp that mirrored the one of his returned memory, his skin heated where Jerome grabbed and pulled at him, underwear thrown into the corner before starting off an intense four days. 

It took him several attempts to find the button, blinking and wanting to go back to sleep, to remember more, but before he could his hand slammed down on the call device. He sat up, trying to compose himself before the nurse arrived. It was the same pale-haired woman from earlier, looking concerned that not even an hour later she was requested again.

“Do you happen to know where my phone is?” he asked, aiming for polite, even though he was fairly sure he sounded flustered, residual from the images he wanted to return to.

In a couple of minutes he held his phone, breathing slowly, waiting for the call to connect.

“Jim.” Wringing his fingers around his phone he swallowed, trying to whet his throat. “I apologize for waking you up so late. Can… let me know when you’re finished processing Jerome. I need to speak to him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald gets the news from Jim Gordon, and it's not good.

He wanted to claim sleep but he was rudely woken up by an argument taking place out in the hallway. Recognising all three voices he buried his face into the pillow with a moan, hoping that Louise would win the fight. He was certainly in no state to handle visitors, as she insisted to the two men outside.

Knowing the two men, they would not be deterred. 

Louise did a lot for him in the time leading up to that morning, starting when she took his phone from him, after his mumbled reply to Jim in the middle of the night.

He couldn’t remember what he said, maybe it was a goodnight, or another apology for waking him up. Maybe he hadn’t said anything at all. Regardless the case It was unimportant, as anything he hoped for faded slowly from his mind until it was all blank.

The phone turned inactive ten seconds after Jim ended the call; she caught the phone as it slid from the blankets, his fingers lax and numb, saving it from the hard tiles.

He held out for several long seconds, not knowing what he should be thinking, only registering the tears welling in his eyes once they fell in earnest. He shook and sobbed, letting out a pained wail as he clutched his stomach. 

It was so much worse than when he first felt the sensation, realisation turning the pain to nothing short of agony. 

He didn’t – couldn’t hear or see the nurse leave the room, nor her return to the room with a female doctor accompanying her. Incoherent and unaware, he had curled onto his side while left alone, the sting of the intravenous tube pulling on his arm insignificant to the agony that curdled deep in his stomach. He wanted to be sick, heaving and gasping around groans and tears. 

He didn’t budge nor look up when they came around to face him. They tried talking to him but his mind was elsewhere, his sobs a throbbing sensation in his head and misery clouding everything further. He vaguely registered their touches but they were too gentle. He needed a firmer touch, just as caring but from someone who knew where to touch him to calm him down, with strong fingers carefully sweeping his hair out of his face to kiss his forehead.

Whimpering he didn’t take heed of the sedative added into his intravenous, or the dainty fingers that tilted his chin up, feeling softly in search of something over his neck.

In the morning, the hour unknown to his foggy mind, the doctor and the nurse spoke to him. Under a still heavy dose of sedatives and painkillers proper introductions were made, as his nurse, Louise, introduced herself and Doctor Sanders from obstetrics. After last night’s discovery, and unknowing how long the pain would effect him, his stay was extended to five days. 

The fact that they were worried for his mental state had him laugh but the brief sound startled and shook a few tears free. Twisting his head he tried to calm himself down but soon he was suffering another crying spell.

The drugs should’ve given him a good sleep but a different untouchable pain lingered through the night, leaving him twitching in the bed. Now that comprehension had claimed a full hold on him he couldn’t not remember, memories of Jerome doting on him when they weren’t in the throes of passion.

“After a traumatic experience like this we will need to closely monitor yours and the baby’s health,” the doctor explained, waiting for him to take a few bites of the breakfast that someone brought in. “In the coming weeks you’ll be scheduled for an ultrasound, to ensure the baby’s health, but for this week we want to make sure you’re physically comfortable. Your body has taken a horrible toll, but we will also be assessing your mental and emotional health.”

It was that very reason that Doctor Sanders refused the GCPD to question him that day. Whoever had made the call, Oswald didn’t inquire, but was grateful, at least he thought he was. It prompted a brief smile when she shared the news but he felt – well, not much of anything. He wouldn’t call it relief. Not hunger, despite the fact that he needed nutrition for the baby. It just seemed like the right response, considering she had spared him from unwanted company.

He knew he should care, and he rubbed his stomach once he was alone in his room, but he didn’t, nor did he have the physical energy to do anything but cry and try to nap; every time he closed his eyes he could only recall Arkham, the moments he shared with Jerome, and mourn the opportunities lost, no longer meant for three but only two.

In grief and pain he burrowed himself in his blankets, ignoring his breakfast and the lunch that was brought in later. At one point when he woke up there was a glass of water at his bedside. It was the most he felt he could stomach, between the lack of appetite and resulting nausea. 

After another sleepless night he woke up to the commotion outside. He rubbed his eyes when blinking refused to rid them of the dry grit. Struggled to keep a moan at bay when he realised the heated conversation in the hallway involved none other than Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock.

He lowered his hand, looking at the bedside table, namely the fake plant beside what he hoped was a fresh glass of water. The fake plant had been brought in last evening, an aid Louise had explained. What it actually was was a non-toxic, naturopathic room spray, a specialty from the obstetrics ward. Fragrance free, acting as a neutralizer for the scent of Omegas, and especially for pregnant Omegas, she had brought it in to let the scent settle through the room, in the event of unexpected visitors. 

Louise was sticking to her word; no one would be wise to his status as pregnant. 

When he got out of hospital, he would be acquiring as many sprays as needed, for wherever he’d be settling down. He had no idea where that might be; Falcone’s mansion was where he had last seen Jerome alive but what happy thoughts that conjured was also accompanied by regret and misery. However, he didn’t know what state his father’s mansion might be in, having been unused for several months. 

“Are you sure he should be lying like that?”

He dug his nails into the pillow cover, wishing it was as easy to block out Harvey’s voice as it was to not look at him. Oswald tried but when he heard several footsteps move through the room he turned his gaze away from the pillow.

“He must have turned onto his side while sleeping, we certainly don’t encourage that, but what a person does in their sleep, we can’t control,” Louise explained, coming to a stop so that she faced him. He gave her an unimpressed look, which she greeted with a cocked eyebrow. It had nothing to do with him, or her, but the men they both considered intruders. “I’m sorry Mr. Cobblepot, they insisted they couldn’t put off questioning you any longer.”

“Despite the fact that I’ve told them everything?” His voice was rough but he relented, if only for her. The sooner he got Jim and Harvey out of his room he could return to peace – or at least quiet. He wouldn’t be getting peace of mind today, probably not tomorrow either. He doubted he would ever regain that. Pushing himself around to sit up, his arm trembling with the effort, Louise handed him the cup. He took a long sip before setting it back down on the table himself. 

“We won’t be long,” Harvey added, eying Louise as she remained at his bedside. 

“I will be staying,” she countered to Harvey who was gesturing with his head to the doorway, crossing her arms tight. “My patient has been in a lot of pain, and his emotional state is erratic. I will not hesitate to make you leave if you upset him.”

“Do you know this guy? Penguin?” Harvey snorted, glancing to Jim then back to Louise. “HIs default mood is erratic.” 

“How are you recovering, Oswald?” Jim asked, a diversion tactic to prevent Harvey from antagonizing her further. 

Oswald doubted Jim would be so lucky and arched an eyebrow. “I have been better,” he replied, curt. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Since everyone else involved in the attack have disappeared, we need you to tell us everything you know,” Jim explained, moving to the side of the bed that Louise didn’t occupy.

“I told you everything yes- two days ago.” He refrained from rolling his eyes, just barely. “Everything was need to know, at the moment, by the required parties. I didn’t know what Scarecrow was up to prior to us arriving at the hangar. I figured out the bombs were being moved to Paisley Square, I protested and got knocked out and tied up on the blimp. After that, I phoned you; you already know how the rest goes.”

“Earlier in the day, you told me that you were scared of Jerome. Did he have an alternative plan that you were aware of?” When he didn’t answer immediately, nor when Jim arched an eyebrow to prompt him several seconds later, Jim tried again. “When he was last questioned, he said he would live on. Do you know what that means?” 

Oh, if Jim only knew.

“Gentlemen…”

“Louise, thank you, but it’s alright.” It had nothing to do with his throat, the dry laugh that he forced out, pained and wanting to yell at them to leave him alone. “I can’t… pretend to understand how Jerome’s mind works – worked. We had an alliance in Arkham, and he sought me out when he and his caravan escaped.” He pulled his hand away from his stomach, running his nails along his arm. “No, I don’t know what that means. And, as you know, fear is all individual, you don’t know what it is until you’re exposed to it. Not knowing his plan, when I have always strived for order, that scared me. And on his own, I never was scared of Jerome, but with everyone else involved? Too many variables, too many players, and not knowing the grand plan? I was scared of that.”

And still scared, no closer to knowing what he – what they were going to do. Maybe once he could get a grasp on his grief, he’d be able to think clearly.

Snapping his gaze up, grasping at a fragment of Jim’s last query, he tightened his jaw.

“Who was the last person to question Jerome? Who saw him last?” he demanded.

“Detectives, that will be enough.” Louise could sense the change in his tone, and knowing what Jim and Harvey didn’t, things could escalate rapidly. “Your time is up.”

“No, not at all. I have a bit more time,” Oswald insisted, nodding in encouragement, smile far from sincere, and turning quickly to incite. “I told my story, so I want your story. Who saw Jerome in his final moments?”

“Jerome fled the scene and I pursued him,” Jim replied, even as Harvey lifted his hand too late to stop his partner; when that failed Harvey watched Oswald warily from the corner of his eye. Oswald didn’t pay him any attention, his gaze locked on Jim, even when he hesitated under the scrutiny. “He killed two people in the square, and several more in the lead up. He needed to be arrested.” 

He silently pressed on with one stretched out word. “And…?”

“He ran up to a rooftop.” Oswald refused to look away, gaze piercing. In that moment Jim sensed that something was wrong, that there was a good reason why Harvey tried to stop him. Harvey had the better read, for what they didn’t know, but Jim waited only a half-second, continuing haltingly. “He was on the edge of the roof. I ordered him to put his hands up-” 

Oswald could feel the pinch at his temples, an impending headache coming on, a mild nuisance compared to the way his chest tightened hard enough to hurt. It didn’t help that he was holding his breath, eyes burning. “You killed him.”

“No, I didn’t. He refused to come peacefully and he was about to give the order to release the gas when I shot his phone out of his hand. He was still going to give the word so – I fired again, and he fell.” Oswald sucked in a breath, loud enough to give clear warning that he had heard all he needed to know. Jim hurried to defend himself, not knowing how pointless it was. “But he was still alive, he was holding onto a pole but before I could grab him, his grip gave out.”

“Because you shot him!” Oswald refused to blink, forced out his breath in a shaky exhale, aware that his eyes were tearing up again. “His hand – the second shot – or did you shoot him before he even ran for the rooftop? Hmm? You weren’t planning on arresting him, you were going to kill him any way you could!”

“Detectives, you can leave now.” Closest as she was to Harvey, Louise moved to him first, placing one hand on his arm to steer him towards the door. 

Harvey glanced over his shoulder even as he was hustled out. “He wouldn’t have gone peacefully back to Arkham, or Blackgate, you know that yourself.”

If it was a choice over death, if there had been another scheme down the road, he wanted to believe that Jerome would go back. He bided his time in Arkham, waiting for the perfect moment to strike out at Gotham.

Yet how likely is a man to be resurrected a second time? Or was he the only one lucky enough to be pulled out of the river, to cheat death twice?

That wasn’t something he’d be willing to risk, not anymore.

He ignored the look Harvey was still giving him, the detective finally relenting with a mumbled ‘alright’ as he was ushered out into the hallway. Jim hadn’t left yet, shuffling slightly to let Harvey leave, but shifting his feet by the doorway. “Oswald?” 

In a quiet voice he wove him off. “I have nothing more to ask you.”

Yet the look on his face was telling enough, and Jim, not knowing how he screwed up, cast him a nonplussed look before stepping into the hallway.

The morning went by quietly, his breakfast foods untouched though he drank the orange juice that came with it. His thoughts, recounting Jim’s version of pursuing Jerome, provided him with unwanted images of Jerome bleeding and plummeting, at different angles, different heights – but all ending the same finite way.

His sleep was only slightly better, equally as disjointed – unrestful, but at least it was pleasant, imagining a warm body stretched out beside him.

Fluctuating between despair and longing, he picked disinterestedly at his lunch, only managing a few mouthfuls before Dr Sanders visited him.

“I understand that the detectives were in this morning to question you about the case.” He set his fork down, shifting to look at her when she sat in the chair to the right of his bed. “I can’t say I know what you’re going through, but I am here to support you during your stay. There may be hard choices to make in due time, depending on how you recover and your own personal choices, but no matter your decision, I ask you to consider your physical and mental health. This is about what is best for you.”

He regarded her for several long seconds, feeling like he was reading the implication behind her statement correctly. “That won’t be an issue at all.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but you don’t have to give me an answer today,” Dr. Sanders assured him, smiling and pulling out several pamphlets. “As of right now, I managed to book you in for an ultrasound two weeks from now, the Thursday at 10:00 am. Of course, if you need to reschedule, the first pamphlet I have here is about our medical imaging department, and they have a contact number. You can phone and reschedule so long as you give them 48-hours notice. The other two pamphlets, if you want to keep them, concern grieving for lost loved ones. There’s information about reading material that may be of interest to you but also details of services we provide in hospital. We offer private one-on-one and public group-support sessions, all the information is inside, but I’ll leave them on your table.”

He knew he’d be wise to keep the medical imaging department pamphlet but his gaze lingered on the two pamphlets underneath, slowly biting the inside of his cheek. He had spent over two months with Jerome, not directly in his presence all the time, but Jerome had always been there, watching him before finally approaching him. During that time Oswald did come to value him, as someone who broke him out of his depression and sought his company, or at least requested entertainment from him. 

He couldn’t say if he had fallen in love with Jerome or if he was mistaking love for infatuation, longing for something that could’ve been. 

If not for Jerome, he likely would still be in Arkham. Either isolated in medical or preyed on by the conquering Alpha.

Yet they spent most of the four days of his heat together; certainly there had been wolf whistles up and down the hall from Jerome’s cell when they were too loud, but there were also the parts in between. Jerome cuddled up behind him. Jerome stealing food from the mess hall and bringing it back for both of them to eat. Silly conversations where they made each other laugh but also serious moments and secrets shared.

The flush that had been stretching over his cheeks felt sticky when a couple of tears spilled free.

“I… I really don’t know what to expect. This – it was my second heat, I’ve been on suppressants since I presented,” he started, not in reference to grieving but ready to inquire about something else that worried him. “I don’t know if that will affect the health of my baby, or if…. if the ultrasound will show if it is healthy, or even if it’s there but-”

“May I ask you a personal question?” 

Snuffling but managing a shrug, he nodded. “I can’t guarantee I’ll answer it.”

“Did you grow up knowing both your mother and father?” she asked, resting her arms on her clipboard.

“My mother,” he replied, relaxing ever so slightly. “I didn’t know who my father was until… two years ago? Something like that. He was never in the picture before then.”

“I would imagine she was a good strong Omega.” When he nodded again, giving a watery smile as he recalled all that his mother did for him as a child, believing in the best of him, the support and love she gave freely, Dr. Sanders returned the smile. “The people who raise us are critical in shaping our lives. I’m going to say you have nothing to worry about, strong and resilient as you are. You and your baby will be just fine.”

Determined to hold her to that, that her word remained true, he took a deep breath and attempted to finish what he first planned on asking. “I like being able to plan, and not knowing anything about the birthing process, and certainly not wanting to go to classes until I’m ready to… make public my condition, I would like some reading material to prepare myself for what will happen as I proceed with my pregnancy. If I can purchase the books without personally going into a store, without credit card, that would be my first option. My only choice really.”

“I can have that arranged. You will need to make an official paid transaction but we can bring the books to you, to your room now, or even when you come in for your ultrasound,” she agreed, writing something down on her clipboard.

Relieved that it was that easy to request and arrange, his shoulders relaxed against his pillow, only noticing then that he had been tense. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough cash on me, or at least where my personal belongings are kept. I’ll pay and take the book home with me when I have my ultrasound.”

“I’ll have them put in the book order, and it will be ready when you are.” Dr. Sanders stood up, walked around the bed to take a closer look at the monitors and his IV bags. “And remember, do not feel ashamed for how you feel. What you have gone through is a painful process, you’ll be feeling emotionally and physically drained for several days, if not longer. Having visitors would help you with the recovery. Do you have any family or friends you wish me to contact?”

He nearly gave himself whiplash how quickly he shook his head. “No, I will be fine.”

He didn’t miss the worried look that crossed her features when she left his room.

*

He could’ve tried phoning for Ed, but he decided it was better not to. There was the possibility he was off with Lee, but more than that, he hoped he was with Martin. The boy had been through so much in such a short period of time. As much as he wanted to keep Martin close it would be safer for him to find somewhere to stay outside of Gotham, until he had his own life settled down again.

_“I knew you couldn’t have done it.” Jerome dragged his teeth over his shoulder, sucked loudly before nudging his knee against the back of his leg. It was just enough movement to shift in deeper, the push teasing a moan out around his attempted response._

_“What?” He ran his fingers along the back of Jerome’s hand, until he tangled their fingers together, skimming over his stomach._

_“I’ve seen the likes of people who hurt kids.” Jerome mouthed his way towards his neck, to which he angled his head to give him better access. It may have been Jerome’s fingers that squeezed his fingers, both their nails scratching down to his hip, letting him tug him back for a lazy thrust. “I can just tell. You’ve killed a lot of people-”_

_“You’ve got a wonderful way with pillow talk,” he mumbled, careful to tip his head in a way to not hit Jerome, currently sucking insistently up to his ear._

_Jerome bit his ear, sharp enough that he tensed. Jerome’s next words sounded wonderfully strained as he took the jolt through his whole body. “But you’ve never killed, let alone laid a finger to harm a kid.”_

_He wasn’t about to argue that in grade two he threatened a classmate with scissors, but the boy bullied him at every opportunity. The teacher came just when the other boy had grabbed the scissors from him, getting ready to have a go at his hand._

_He barely got the chance to stammer out an affirmative, and when he did it had more to do Jerome scratching to pull his hip back for a harder thrust. “Y-yes. Please.”_

_Maybe had he thought more about Jerome’s groping hand, stroking his belly once he had pushed him over onto his knees, he would’ve understood why Jerome chose this conversation. His mouth dropped open when Jerome settled behind him, thumbing his oversensitive rim before sliding fully back into him. A few seconds consisted of Jerome encouraging him to curl his back up and tilt his hips slightly forward when the next thrust directly hit that tiny bundle of nerves, ripping a loud high-pitched sound from the depths of chest that had someone tittering from across the hall._

_“I think I can get you to do that again,” Jerome muttered, working the spot on his shoulder again, pressure building under the skin, hot and stinging from the friction of teeth and tongue._

_“You – are – more than welcome to try.” He could feel the wide smirk, wet and crooked, which had him giggling in turn. He tried to rut back but Jerome was grabbing for his pillow, cast aside from earlier, managing to lift him enough to squeeze it under his knee. He was briefly unbalanced but the arm that looped around him steadied him, dragged him back. They both teetered for a couple of seconds until they found a successful tandem and punishing rhythm, that the subsequent sounds and words coming from the cell were from both of them._

Flopping his head to the side, resettling his hand on his stomach despite arousal coiling further down, he tried to refocus on… whatever it was he had been thinking about initially. Martin? Oh, because he had been thinking about Ed. There would be far too many questions if Ed actually visited him. He probably was busy anyways, an active criminal after all, taking care of business in the Narrows or masterminding his next venture.

Asking Jim to visit was absolutely out of the question, he was the reason that Jerome was dead.

The flutter in his belly died out and for the second time that afternoon he considered reaching for the bottom two pamphlets but twisted his fingers in the blanket instead. 

There was no one he could confide to, all the people he had trusted at any point choosing to leave him. Ed followed his own whims most of the time, and although they last came together on good terms, chances were he was still waiting on Lee to decide what to do next. He couldn’t blame him for that, as Lee had intervened just in time during the shoot out of Harvey and Jim verses Zsasz and Headhunter. She had proven herself to be reliable, even though he didn’t consider her a friend. It was a matter of convenience; in order to maneuver Sofia out she needed to get him out of the stand-off. They had only agreed to be temporary allies for the sake of a common enemy.

His mood seesawed over the next two days, as he was reminded of the people who he couldn’t reach out to, for one reason or another. At least he could focus on making a schedule and a list of things to do. He would need to transfer his funds around, foremost to pay for his hospital stay but also to pay for groceries to be delivered to the safehouse he intended to stay in for the next few days. He couldn’t guarantee what state his father’s mansion would look like after many months of disuse. Make sure that the premises were vacated and not vandalised. Not only the mansion but all of his properties, the Lounge included. 

One thing he didn’t take into account was the suit he wore when admitted to hospital would be what he’d be wearing when he was released. Could he guarantee he could contact anyone on his payroll, if anyone was still around, he would’ve requested someone to drop off a clean pair of clothes.

Someone, thankfully, had made an effort to make sure that his suit wasn’t stuffed haphazardly into a locker. His shirt and pants were somewhat wrinkled, his vest and jacket faring only a little bit better. If it weren’t for the plant still in his room, he would even say they smelled of the fuel that powered the blimp. They would definitely need to go to the dry-cleaners. 

Smoothing his tie down he glanced over to Louise, standing by the bedside table. “If I may inquire, do you normally work the night shift?” 

She had the fake plant in her hands and started to nod, but when their eyes met she elaborated. “I do, but the shift coordinator switched me to the day shift for the remainder of your stay. Since your sleep did improve after your second night, my shift – and Dr. Sanders’ – had been rotated to days, when you’d be interacting with staff most. As a means to keep your condition confidential.” 

“I consider myself very fortunate to have been in your capable hands, and Dr. Sanders’. Although the circumstances were…. very unexpected, I appreciate everything that has been done for me.” He hadn’t yelled at either of them, unlike the times when Ed and Ivy played doctor to him. He tried his best to be an agreeable patient, moping aside, and it appeared that Louise and Dr. Sanders’ had been decent to him. He wasn’t going to start snooping to find out if they had been gossiping about him to their colleagues; he didn’t want to be disappointed too soon. 

“Honestly, I expected worse of you, but – you were fairly decent.” He twisted a bit more to face her, giving her the stink eye, to which Louise gave him a look that looked almost sassy. “Unless you want to go to our chairholders and physically persuade them to pay the nurses more.”

“I’m sure I could arrange something along those lines.” He laughed faintly, not expecting a line like that, but it did make him more comfortable concerning the thoughts that had been lingering in his mind. After all, the two women had promised to keep his condition confidential. “But I would like to inquire if you could do me a favour.”

He didn’t get to propose it, not when the door opened and Harvey entered. Louise nearly dropped the plant, setting it back down on the table. 

“Detective Bullock, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His smile was on the impatient side as he turned to the face the detective. “And I will remind you, I told you everything I know.”

“It’s not my civic duty, but personal interest, that brings me here.” Harvey placed his hand over his heart as he smiled what might’ve been his idea of a charming smile to Louise. “Has Mr. Cobblepot made a full recovery?”

Louise tipped her head, in answer but also not entirely convinced of his spoken intentions. “Yes he has, he’s getting ready to leave-”

“To a hotel,” Oswald lied, giving Harvey a firm look. “I have housekeeping issues to tend to before I can move back to my house. I’m sure that short of getting the commendation Jim promised me, I am a free man and won’t be returning to Arkham on another false charge.”

“That wasn’t my intention at all.” 

“So you just came down here to check on my condition, out of the goodness of your heart?” He scoffed and picked up the pamphlets from the table, sliding them into his vest pocket under his jacket before Harvey tried peeking. 

“I have a heart of gold.” Harvey brought his hand back up to his chest, or nearly did, pointing to him quickly. “And don’t say otherwise. Keep your quips to yourself or I’ll make sure your house is worst for wear.”

“I do advise that Mr. Cobblepot does get back to his home as soon as possible,” Louise added, glancing to him with a faint smile. “You may still experience some… discomfort in the next few weeks. Familiar surroundings, and not transient ones, would be better for your health.”

He resisted touching his stomach, wondering just how soon visible changes would become apparent. “I’ll be following the nurse’s orders. And, I do have one more question, so if you could give us some privacy Detective…”

Harvey gave him a considering look before the corner of his mouth twitched up. “I should be giving her a commendation for putting up with you.” He did relent though, exiting the room with a deep inhale. 

“What did you want to ask?” Louise asked, stepping back towards him. 

“About a favour.” Making sure that he didn’t see Harvey lurking in the doorway he decided to not stretch out his time, or luck, with a longwinded preamble. “If you have the time, and I’d be willing to pay you for your time, would you agree to come with me to my ultrasound appointment? This is still a lot for me to comprehend and I really would like advice from a professional.” 

“The men and women in medical imaging are very knowledgeable, they will be a lot of help for you, they can direct you with making various decisions,” she explained, picking up the plant again and cradling it in her arm.

“See? I didn’t know that.” Perhaps he would be more prepared by the time he had the book in his hand, except that was still two weeks away. “Can I at least do lunch or dinner with you next week? I need to find an obstetrician who does accept male-Omega patients, and you might know more information than I do.”

“I can do lunch next Wednesday,” Louise replied, but lifted a finger to hold him back from saying more. “I can’t promise anything else, let’s see how next week goes first.”

“That is perfectly reasonable,” he agreed.

And maybe he could make some time to visit with the chairmen of the hospital too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hospital stay was the easy part. It's back to business, and the spiral into madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following timelines is a hassle, or at least a hassle that I should've figured out before posting the first chapter to avoid the delay of this chapter. I always intended to reinterpret the time span through episodes 4.18 to 4.22. I hereby declare Oswald has spent five days in hospital and it's several days after his release that the Clock Tower says goodbye.

He arrived at his safehouse about an hour later, after stopping by the mansion for an appraisal. The doors had been locked, not that that would’ve deterred anyone determined to wreak damage, but by luck alone there was no vandalization outside or within. Cleanliness was a different issue. As Olga had been given an unforeseen leave of absence the kitchen needed restocking in addition to a cleaning; the whole mansion, dusty and stale from disuse, needed a deep cleaning, in addition to clean linens and towels. At least the latter should already be clean, stored safely in the upstairs linen closet. 

He made the call to Olga from the taxi, leaving a message on her voicemail, then phoned for his usual cleaning staff, promising payment by the weekend. Grateful that Jerome declared the Falcone mansion the base of his operations and not his, he would be able to return home by Monday. The state of the Falcone’s property not being in his own hands was a huge sigh of relief after he pocketed his phone.

He wasn’t sure if any police cruisers would be keeping an eye on the better hotels in the city, but he did request the taxi to drop him off a couple of blocks away from his safehouse. Taking a circuitous route he arrived at the time he had estimated, which gave him a couple of hours to relax before his groceries would arrive, asked to be left in front of his door. 

Showering for the first time in over a week was absolutely satisfying. He would’ve indulged in a long bath but the lingering hospital smell on his skin required a proper scrubbing that soaking in bathwater, that would be dirty within seconds, wouldn’t be sufficient. Scrubbing himself twice over with bodywash and loofah he lingered under the hot, steady spray of water, enjoying his regained privacy, no longer in a chilly communal shower room.

It was when he stepped out of the shower, opening the bathroom door a crack to help the steam disperse, that he realised he had a different kind of scent on his person now, and he didn’t know how to contend with that as of yet. 

Before entering the washroom he left his old clothing on the foot of his bed. Now clean and wrapped in a warm bathrobe he searched for his phone. Prior to leaving the hospital he had saved Louise’s number but he didn’t want to bother her so soon after he gave her a break from his constant presence. Connecting to the hospital’s obstetrics department, he got the names of a couple stores in the city that specialised in products for Omegas. The provider that he usually ordered from outside the city would take too long to ship. To go about his usual business, he would need them by tomorrow morning, if not sooner.

Flipping his phone off, satisfied with his orders to be delivered by morning, he stretched out on the bed. No longer limited to a twin-sized thin cot, and with several pillows to his leisure, he was very tempted to fall asleep but he had to stay awake for his food, even if the idea of take-out sounded a lot better. 

At the very least, if he did decide to be lazy and order from a restaurant, he needed to take care of his dirty clothes. He sat up, stretching for his now very much wrinkled suit. Leaning towards the various garments he started folding them, the motions of his shirt, followed by his vest and jacket, drawing the scent of fuel in several waves. 

He didn’t realise he was taking a deep breath, smelling something far more pleasant, burying his nose into his jacket. He didn’t know what to describe it as at first, but imagined the sticky and sweet taste of caramel, lingering on him as if rubbed against his cheek and jaw, paired with the almost tart smell of apples.

The sound of the doorbell startled him. Dropping the jacket he picked up his groceries and put them away in record time before returning to the bed, smelling not just his jacket, but his vest and shirt in turn. The scent was strongest on his vest and jacket, which he held tight in his arms, pressed to his chest, bowing his head to not just breathe it in but also to brush his mouth against the lapels and collar, trying to burrow himself in the smell and taste, trying to find as many nuances as possible.

Tears prickled his eyes when it finally hit him.

This was Jerome. 

He ate a late dinner, napping with his scent wrapping around him, warmer than any blankets.

*

The amenities as provided by the hospital were still items that he wanted to inquire more about. Certainly having a few of the fake-plants in the mansion would come in useful, primarily used in his office and the drawing room. If he still had the Lounge, and that was another issue in itself, he would have several in his office. He knew that the hospital had to have purchased them from elsewhere, and perhaps Louise could point him in the right direction, but for the following morning, well-rested and well-fed, he was ready with his new purchases.

He had bought several scarves but the purple one went best with the suit he had chosen for the day. Natural oils kept the scarves soft on his skin but also acted as a scent inhibitor, not just to neutralise the scent of an omega but also the more nuanced scent of a pregnant omega. Paired with the body wash and lotions that were included with his purchases, he could step out of his safehouse and start taking care of business without being disturbed. 

Over breakfast he had phoned to make an appointment with the main office of the bank where his assets had been frozen. He prepared for the worst, fearing that he would be denied and have to contact Ed and Lee, but fortunately the GCPD and their representative had done their part; all that he needed to do was come into the branch to finalize everything. By that point he would be able to pay for his hospital stay and pay everyone else for their services.

It occurred to him that there wasn’t that much he needed to do that day aside from taking care of his finances, and with that finished, he still had the afternoon free. The other calls made that morning were spent cancelling deliveries as well as utilities for the Iceberg Lounge, which meant no more freeloading from the new owners, or at least preventing them from doing so now that his accounts were unfrozen. 

New found time on his hands he could follow up on Butch. Instead, he committed to the legwork, of the few men he reconnected with and were back in his employment, and took up more phone calls to track down Professor Strange.

The weekend passed by slowly but without any mishaps as far as his eyes saw. Olga returned his call, as dour as she often sounded but agreeing to be at the mansion on Monday, and fortunately, by late Saturday evening he received a call that confirmed the mansion had been fully cleaned. He managed to confirm Penn’s whereabouts, and planned on bestowing him with a surprise visit on Sunday, test his loyalty to be brought back into the fold and work on filling the vacant positions amongst his staff.

He would be back in business.

Monday he was back in the mansion, resuming the lines of business. It wasn’t as difficult as he expected. Sunday he had set up visits and meetings, designated by time and places to happen either on Monday or Tuesday. If he had anticipated being met with disgruntled clients he was surprisingly pleased to be greeted by friendly overtures. Barbara’s current partners had apparently ostracized several of the subsidiaries who had worked for him, enough so that they had waited specifically for his return. 

He would’ve laughed but not about to look a gift horse in the mouth he kept that impulse at bay, instead doing the paperwork to renegotiate terms and contracts.

Only a couple of the pots that he kept his fingers in had moved onto greener pastures, and as he counted up how many ventures he currently operated, he determined he could take a bit of money out to invest in his newest idea.

Settling into his office chair, he dialled up the hospital.

It was late Monday evening that he found out about the attack on the GCPD. He didn’t know all the details, forgetting to restart his subscription to the Gazette, but from what the news reports described Jerome’s followers had attacked the precinct. It struck him as odd, as he knew that on their own, they couldn’t wrangle themselves out of a paper bag. Someone else had to be behind it, and he had a pretty good idea who. 

Early the next morning, lilies in hand, he entered the cemetery, pulling his coat snug with his free hand. He couldn’t recall the last time since he visited the grounds, sometime after his father was buried, but not since Ed’s disgusting lack of respect for the dead. Dread was building in his chest as he approached the plot but upon seeing the recently mowed lawn one would have never known that the body had been dug up. The earth was slightly uneven from a poor repacking of soil but no one would be the wiser. Not even the headstone had any damage, not out of place in the slightest or dinged up. 

His father told him all about dark sides, how it ran in the family, but there was no easy way to tell him just how true that could be for the grandchild to come. Instead he stood silently, hoping that the untold stories would have a chance to be shared another time, only leaving a couple of lilies in the interim. 

The same could not be said about Jerome’s plot. 

The precinct had been declared in dire need of a clean-up after Jerome’s followers had invaded it, but the coffin only suffered several dents, and scraped paint, on one edge. The coffin, back within the ground, was covered by loose dirt and a pile of sod was set to the side. He stepped around carefully, smirking as he read the inscription on the stone. 

“I really don’t know what to make of this – of you.” Thoughts spoken aloud but quietly, he rubbed the stems with his thumb, shaking his head. “There is a lot I don’t remember, it’s coming back to me in bits and pieces, but… I wish you could’ve told me anything. Something. What was going on in your head while we were in Arkham, and… if there was anything you had planned for after Paisley Square. After the gas, had it all gone your way. That plan, it seemed like it was all in shackles, and if one broke, then it would fall apart. Maybe I’m too blame for that but… I needed an explanation. Not knowing… it scared me. And… I think I’m still a bit scared. I don’t know what I’m doing with… our kid, but I can promise you, I’m going to do everything. Call it your third chance.”

He dropped the last two lilies into the grave before making his way slowly to the cemetery gates. 

*

In Arkham, many of the inmates took liberty in personalizing their black-and-whites. It had never been a priority for himself, which would probably surprise everyone considering he never underdressed for any occasion. It struck him as curious that Jerome always wore white gloves, but considering how he had been planning a grand scheme, it was probably done to prevent fingerprints to indicate where he had been and what he had been up to.

Doctors’ and nurses’ scrubs were uniforms in themselves, though the variety of colours and patterns were often a choice of personalization and personality. It didn’t give the whole picture of the individual, so when he saw Louise come into the speakeasy it took him a moment to realise it was her.

Her blonde hair wasn’t in its usual ponytail, curling down past her shoulders as she looked around for several seconds. Her gaze almost missed his before she nodded in greeting, joining him at the booth he had chosen.

“You’re drinking?” The first words out of her mouth were not of greeting, but he could understand that, considering where he offered to meet her. 

“Tonic water.” He took a sip before faintly smiling, the lavender hue of her blouse perhaps a homage to him, but it also played perfectly with her hazel eyes. “Thank you for meeting me. Choose anything from the menu, alcohol if you so wish.”

“Do I need to be imbibed for this conversation?” Louise asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

“I would hope not! As I did mention, I’m out of my depths for the first time in my life, but I’m ready to take the next step. I need some direction,” he explained, settling easily into the conversation. He had prepped himself the day before, going over the questions he would need to ask prior to his ultrasound the following week. 

“I hope I can help,” Louise agreed, opening the menu. Yet, before he could fire off a question, the waiter who had brought his drink over, returned to the table to take her order.

The speakeasy was far from crowded, but it wasn’t until he cast a furtive glance to ensure that the few other customers around were not looking in their direction, did he relax. Once Louise’s drink was delivered he lowered his voice a fraction. “My concern has primarily been finding an obstetrician, ideally one with flexible hours but… are there any who specialise with male Omegas?”

“There are a few in the city, and all come highly recommended. It really comes as a question, if you prefer to have a male or female doctor.” She had set her purse down beside her when she sat, and removed a folded piece of paper, sliding it across to him, careful to avoid any wet spots from their glasses. “I haven’t seen any particular trends for one to another, so it’s up to you to decide. You could always meet with all three of them before deciding. Phone numbers and addresses are all printed out.”

To be honest, he didn’t have that many questions; the lunch was also meant to see how well they interacted outside of the hospital, if he would be able to trust her in the long run. That thought was a pressing matter even as he glanced to the paper. As tempting as it was to read it now, he tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I’ll make the calls tomorrow, if I don’t have time this afternoon. I must admit, with the visits of the detectives at the hospital, that fake plant was very useful in concealing my scent. Does the hospital advertise where they buy items of that nature? I would like to buy a couple of those plants, and maybe look at buying other items if they can be of use to me.”

“I don’t know who they purchase through, but I will look that up and give you the number when I have it.” She had lifted one shoulder, a small shrug, before she took a sip of her drink, her glass already in hand. “I’ll be quite honest, even though there are other male omegas in the city, most are not ashamed in revealing their identity, or that they are pregnant.”

“I’m not ready for everyone to know.” He took a few seconds to think, setting his fingers lightly together on the table. “I’ve been taking suppressants for so long, and though my primary concern is to ensure that the baby is healthy first, I don’t want to have to worry about anyone discovering it before I’m ready to share. Information is a valuable, but also dangerous, asset in Gotham.” 

“You believe people would think less of you?” Louise smiled faintly, and he bristled, expecting a cruel or mocking barb. “You are dangerous the way you are. Sure, you can be civil and proper when the situation calls for it, but your reputation is still well known. You are deadly when needed.”

He hadn’t been digging for flattery, but when receiving it, he couldn’t help but smile, far from bashful. “Well, it’s not like I can cite sources, since anyone who could prove that are… disposed of.”

“Not to mention, the whole divide between Alpha and Omega, is quite pointless,” she added, setting her glass back down. “I like to compare it to two sides of the same coin. An Alpha is normally seen as dominant, the primary aggressor. Many people would believe an Omega is submissive, the non-aggressor. But an Alpha can’t be dominant without someone willing to cede, and a healthy Alpha would know that it’s a delicate balance between the two. There will always be an element of give and take in a relationship, in any effective power-balance situation. And, as far as aggression is concerned, it’s just a matter of what drives the aggression. A threatened Omega, regardless of the situation, doesn’t back down. They may not physically fight back, but they will do whatever it takes to regain control of a situation. And, more specifically, pertaining to you? Your history has shown that you don’t back down from any challenge, and even if you do, it’s only to calculate the next counter-strike.”

“Well, once I’ve regained my foothold in society, I’ll back off on the scent-inhibitors. I imagine that would be in a couple of weeks, and by then that should give me a good idea of how well the baby is doing.” He wanted to think that was a good basis to set his decision on, but waited to see if Louise would give a visible sign of approval. She didn’t show any signs of disapproval, which he took to be a good thing. “I do want to know, mostly as a curiosity, do you have family living in Gotham? My mother and father have sadly passed on.”

“I have an older sister out of state,” she replied, slightly tipping her head. “Our mother passed away… almost ten years ago.”

He asked mostly to determine if there would be anyone in the city who could be used against her, but also knowing that if she needed to get out in an emergency, she did have somewhere else to go. “I imagine it would be nice to see other places, but for me, Gotham has always been my home,” he acknowledged, about to play with his glass but instead taking a sip.

“My sister and I were born here, but she was more than happy to move out when her husband got a better job in Connecticut. More than that, she was happy to get a house with a front yard,” Louise added, laughing under her breath.

“No, you don’t normally get that in Gotham,” he agreed, chuckling under his breath, lifting his glass to Louise. “To lawns and better jobs.”

Their glasses just clinked when their waiter returned; he waited for them to finish sipping their drinks before nodding. “Have you had a chance to look at your men-“

Even underground, there was a distinct rumble that sounded from somewhere above. Oswald looked to the ceiling, grateful that it wasn’t showing any signs of crumbling. “Renovations in the bookstore?”

“No, we would’ve known,” the waiter insisted, looking around like the rest of the people in the speakeasy were. 

It was hearing yelling that prompted Oswald to stand up, now certain that he needed to taking a look. He placed several bills on the table, more than enough to pay for their drinks.

The speakeasy, The Bookend, was in an unusual location, as far as bars normally went. It wasn’t in the theatre district, where many popular restaurants and bars dotted the streets. There were actually no other restaurants on the block, aside from a walk-in bakery up the street. The Bookend was built in a conjoined basement under a popular independent bookstore, occupying what used to be two separate stores before the shared wall was knocked down, and the dry-cleaners that stood on the corner. Entrance was provided on either end, through the dry-cleaners and the furthest-corner of the bookstore. 

The Bookend was a quiet speakeasy on normally a quiet block in Gotham, or as quiet as the city got. Back in the day, the unsuspecting location was the perfect hot spot to illegally acquire, and consume, alcohol. Nowadays it was a less busy location for a quick eat and drink and, for when the occasion required it, sharing secrets for non-violent crowds. It was never under the territory of Falcone or Maroni, or any other minor gangs with ambitions to grow in size or reputation. It was, like the bookstore, independent. More often it was where scoundrel-husbands, or bored-housewives, made their latest trysts. 

Other people came to discuss issues that should be kept away from curious ears, legal or otherwise. 

When they emerged from the bookstore, the few yells they had heard had settled down, though there was still a fair amount of panic, people looking around to see what had caused the noise. 

They had to join everyone else on the opposite side of the street, pointing in the distance where the Clock Tower should’ve been.

Louise didn’t join the crowd, turning an accusing gaze towards him. He pulled a face, indignant and shaking his head firmly.

The bombs on the blimp had been laughing gas, and had to have been confiscated. Even if they weren’t, they weren’t intended to demolish buildings.

Someone, other than the former League of Horribles, was responsible.

Word on the street didn’t take long to spread, and in less than an hour most people were already complaining about Jeremiah Valeska, and how nowhere was safe, that reports listed multiple bombs in unmarked locations. The city was under a state of emergency, evacuations being ordered by the Mayor and the GCPD. Some people were refusing to leave, feeling that one more crisis could easily be avoided. 

They had just avoided bombs raining down on Paisley Square. And other forms of threats, ranging from Strange’s creations to reanimated dead men. This too would pass.

What they didn’t know was this Valeska was still an unknown, a new man, a new player with an undisclosed agenda. They should be leaving until it was safe to return.

He felt like he was running around in circles; while he had phoned Louise after notice of the evacuation was broadcast, she stated in no uncertainty that while she was assisting in getting patients out of the hospital and across the river, she would remain at the hospital to remain as part of the skeleton staff, he had his own agenda to take care of. He had ensured safe passage for his people to get them out of the city. Knowing that all the bridges were full, bumper-to-bumper, he had contacted the fishing company that was still under his watch. Olga had no other family in Gotham but he had offered her and loyal former and current employees safe travel out on the boat.

Olga refused, bless her heart. Penn, he wasn’t able to connect with, oddly enough. Whether he had already fled, or was still in the city, he didn’t know.

When the boat pulled out of the dockyard, more crowded than usual, even the fishermen joined with their own families, he was off on another quest. 

At least he should’ve been, had he not turned around to find Harvey Bullock appraising the boat, mumbling something under his breath. “Yes Detective?” Oswald asked loudly, distracting him from whatever was on his mind.

“Should’ve thought about that.” Harvey watched the boat start across to the opposite side of the river, somewhat reluctant.

“Technically the boat is over capacity, but no one onboard was complaining,” Oswald explained, hoping that the detective wasn’t about to arrest him for that. “I need to get going, things to do, bomb-happy Valeskas to deal with-” 

“Yeah, about that.” He gave his chin one last rub before shrugging and letting his hand drop. “Do you have any information on Jeremiah? Did you ever meet him?”

“No, and my intel on him is limited. Younger brother, the so-called smarter brother, and I’m pretty sure he’s no longer using his bunker as his base of operations, but no, I have no idea where he might be.” His hospital stay had kept him painfully out of the loop, and he was scrambling to get up-to-date information by the minute. He had few eyes left working for him, and he knew that soon enough he would need to get in touch with Barbara, loathing to admit so to himself. It did help that one of his men was off trying to locate Butch, who would lead him to Tabitha, and from there, Barbara. 

When Harvey leaned in, he was expecting him to say something, anything. What he got was a drawn-out, loud, inhaled sniff. “What-! I assure you that I showered this morning!” Oswald had nothing to be offended about, but he pulled his coat closer to him, glaring at the older man.

“You should smell of fish, or at least the eau de Gotham River, half-chemicals and decomposing bodies. For the third time I’ve run into you, you smell like nothing,” Harvey accused, gesturing to his head and cutting his hand down to indicate his whole body. “In all my years I have questioned numerous witnesses and victims in hospital and you can’t avoid the smell of a hospital. In your hospital room, those two times, nothing.”

He would’ve blanched, and he was sure he did, but hopefully the breeze coming off the river was cold enough to excuse his complexion. “There is such thing as room sprays,” he said, letting go of his coat. 

“Oh, and you got one on you now?” Harvey led with his hands, starting to pat down his coat. Oswald knew he had to feel his gun, compact and slung over his side, but the detective didn’t stop there, kept moving his hands around. 

It wasn’t until his hands drifted around to his front, thumbs pressing down on his still flat stomach, that without his usual cool he snarled, teeth sharp as slammed his hand fully against Harvey’s throat, stepped forward to give him a shove. “Let go of me!!”

He didn’t possess the greatest physical strength, the fault to his stature and height, but he gasped and recoiled as Harvey stumbled back several steps, not just because of the surprise but also the force delivered by the single blow. He wasn’t, shouldn’t be, capable of anything like that.

In the swiftness of the strike, and the breeze coming in off the water, his scarf uncoiled from the loose tether he arranged it in before leaving the mansion, slackened and drooped as the day progressed. By jumping back the longer end of the scarf slithered down and off his shoulder, the whole yard of fabric landing at his feet. 

That was when the scent overpowered the dock; if Harvey wasn’t shocked already, he was going through the biggest – worst revelation, he never wanted. “Oh. Oh shit. You’re – an Omega?” Remembering where his hands had settled before he was shoved nearly off his feet, he yelled intelligibly, mostly a sound of disbelief, and several more curse words compacted into one garbled, nonsensical sound. “You’re pregnant?!”

The boat was far enough away to have not heard Harvey’s outburst, and as far as he knew, the rest of the riverside was unoccupied. “Shut your damn mouth!” he ordered, struggling to crouch down to grab his scarf before wrapping it more securely around his neck.

“How?” Harvey managed to supress a half-gag, shifting into a chortle when Oswald stared at him, tilting his head and rolling his eyes. “Okay, not what I want to think about, but yeah, dumb question, don’t need the technical answer. Or the mechanics. Must’ve used suppressants and scent inhibitors to keep this a secret for as long as you have.” 

“Mooney would’ve had me working elsewhere had she ever known,” was all that he said, prising his hands from the scarf, the closest he would get to agreeing with Harvey.

Harvey resisted a chuckle, but after a few seconds his gaze gave away his amusement. “You are making it too easy for me to comment on your situation. And with that, I’m surprised you didn’t get on the boat.”

“I was seeing them off.” He would’ve liked to have seen Martin off, but as soon as he heard of multiple bombs he phoned Riddler and insisted he get Martin out of the city promptly. Riddler promised and he only assumed it had been done. He started towards the delivery van that had brought everyone to the dock. “And now it’s time for me to drive off.”

“You got the keys for that?”

He may have learned how to fly a blimp, but with his lack of driving skills one of the women had been behind the wheel while he was in the passenger seat. She likely still had the key, since he didn’t have it. 

“Let me give you a lift, I promise I won’t charge you for passage for two,” Harvey offered, grinning when he scowled side-eye to him. “I’m sure time is of the essence for you, for whatever you still need to get done.”

Sadly he was right, and he hesitated on the passenger side of the cruiser that Harvey had arrived in. “Always.”

Surprisingly Harvey unlocked the front door, and they settled in for a quiet drive, for all of three minutes. He hadn’t given directions to where he was going, nor did he ask why Harvey had come down to the docks. Had he been tailing him? Or had he come down to the docks for a different purpose? 

And where the hell was Jim?

“Whose is it?” 

“Nosy,” he accused quietly, looking out at the empty street. They were going in a direction away from the bridges, where traffic remained at a standstill. “I have no reason to tell you.”

“The paper always said you had a thing for Riddler.” When he didn’t confirm or deny, Harvey shrugged, took the next right turn. “Zsasz? You didn’t part on the best of terms. Will you give him visitation rights?” 

“Tell me detective, use your skills.” He knew his tone was mocking, and he checked to see if Harvey was offended, but instead he was regarding him curiously, eager to get a hint. “Did you happen to feel anything when you decided to go feeling me up?”

“Feel-?” Perhaps Harvey was focusing on the last week as far as the three separate occasions they had seen each other. He certainly had fallen back into the routine of mouthing off at him upon sight. Yet prior to his hospital visits, they hadn’t seen each other for over two months. It took several seconds for realization to sink in, Harvey wincing. “Really? One of the inmates?”

“Really.” He nearly smirked, cheek twitching, but he settled down with a sigh. “Like Las Vegas, what happens in Arkham, stays in Arkham. I didn’t have suppressants with me, I didn’t even stop to consider that it would happen.”

“Well. I.” It wasn’t stammering, the detective trying to collect his thoughts and translate them into words. “I can’t believe what I’m about to say but…” Harvey shook his head before looking at him, as they stopped at an intersection. “You’re better off without him. You’re crazy, and dangerous, but not the worst option.”

He was about to argue that, but his phone ringing in his coat pocket couldn’t have come at a better time. Removing it he realized it was the man he assigned to tail Butch. “This is as far as I’m going. I don’t know why you aren’t assisting with the evacuation, but I can get to where I’m going from here.”

Once he gave his location to his man it wasn’t long until he was being driven to an abandoned building in the Narrows. He was giving too much hope to the situation, that no more damage would befall Gotham, that by nightfall he could be getting Butch to Professor Strange to complete his side of the deal, not forgotten as Butch may have thought. His time at the hospital had simply delayed it.

The drive to the building hadn’t taken too long, but assuming that he got the phone call when Butch first arrived at the building, things hadn’t gone according to someone’s plan when Butch was hightailing it out with Tabitha and Barbara, both women carrying guns that were aimed at him as soon as he got out of the car. “Don’t!” he yelled, ducking back behind the car door, knowing it wouldn’t be much of a shield for his body but it was better than nothing. “I was trying to find Butch!”

“You couldn’t have found me sooner? Where have you been? It’s been over a week!” They were all breathless, not for exertion, but probably what happened inside. Butch kept walking towards him, incredulous and yelling. “You could’ve tried negotiating with him!”

“I was in hospital, I’ve only been out for… five days? I’ve been trying to find you, find Strange – do my end of the deal!” The driver kept idling, but he gestured for him to turn the car off when Barbara and Tabitha lowered their guns. “Negotiating? What were you even trying to do, get yourself blown up?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.” Barbara tipped her chin up, confident even though it sounded like their plan failed. “Save the city, make a little money-”

“For the procedure that you promised Butch, before you decided you need to self-admit yourself to the hospital.” Tabitha stared at him, unimpressed but not lacking in her usual barbs. “Normally the insane need to check first if there is a brain to fix.”

“I’ll fix it! The procedure, for Butch!” he hastened to add, Tabitha about to laugh at what could’ve been confirmation to her insult. “But – you must have some idea of what Jeremiah is up to if you decided you needed to have an afternoon shoot-out with him!”

A couple of minutes later he grudgingly pulled out his phone, hating that he’d be delivering more unfortunate news to Harvey. Remarkably Harvey wasn’t surprised to hear his voice, and was taking his information, as gleaned by Barbara, in a loud voice, probably alerting Jim to what they had to do next. 

The day didn’t improve, with each ticking hour the state of the city devolving further into madness. Another building was blown up, Jeremiah captured and then mysteriously vanishing from an interrogation room, apparently by Barbara’s former patron. Whatever little magic trick that was imbedded into her head, or at least activated by Ra’s, appeared to act as a means to track the man down.

Despite getting Butch to Strange’s newest facility he was still needed elsewhere. Barbara had finally tracked down Ra’s to another abandoned building. As proficient as he was with a knife, apparently he wasn’t required to stab anyone, or wield some paw that Barbara kept talking about; all the same Barbara and Butch insisted that he was needed to take out the bigger threat to the city, and apparently rescue Bruce Wayne along the way. 

He regarded Tabitha from the corner of his eye, quelling his need to take her out then and now. As it was he waited for Barbara’s signal. They needed the numbers more than he needed revenge but in due time, by gun or by blade, he would have his chance to reclaim justice for his mother.

Even without his coat he was overheated, nothing to be surprised about with the mounting tension, in addition to the scarf he still wore. He had fixed the tails as neatly as possible, not wanting it to be free to be used as a weapon against him. And with the mixed crowd of people, he would be a fool to cause a slipup in the middle of a fight, physically or with an untimely whiff.

He was about to scratch his neck when he heard the signal.

Jeremiah and Ra’s were further back, keeping Bruce out of range from the immediate fight, but as they advanced further in, guns and weapons taking out Ra’s men, the two were split up, Jeremiah dragging Bruce off with him. For all purposes, he knew that Bruce’s guardian and Tabitha were making their way towards Jeremiah, so he was picking off whoever wasn’t dead yet. Remarkably, just like Ra’s himself, it seemed like more showed up even with the bodies dropping to the ground.

He decided to let Tabitha think it was mercy when he fired a round into Jeremiah’s shoulder. Once she was free she was looking back to him, still advancing forward, gun on Jeremiah even as he pulled himself away from where he had Tabitha pinned.

Oswald knew his scarf was still in place. He had purposely kept his distance, not wanting to chance getting it yanked off. Yet as he got closer Jeremiah stopped moving, cocking his head slightly as they stared at one another. 

Even in confusion and chaos, recognition set in, and Oswald tightened his grip on the gun.

Despite the darkness Oswald could see the flare of his nostrils, followed by eyes widening, fascinated but also aghast. “What did Jerome do?” Jeremiah murmured, somehow the words piercing in the middle of a fight.

Oswald didn’t stop to think if Tabitha heard. He heard all four words, but the mention of Jerome had his stomach tensing under Jeremiah’s gaze, a predatory look overtaking his features.

Louise’s words came back to him. 

‘A threatened Omega, regardless of the situation, doesn’t back down.’

Jeremiah rolled onto his shoulder just in the nick of time, avoiding the next spray of bullets from his gun, scrambling none-so elegantly for cover.

Whatever Jeremiah had in mind, he wouldn’t let him think it, let alone do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've normally seen writers describe the scent of an Alpha being linked to something to highlight masculinity or power. And here I am, deciding on caramel and apples? Basically candy apples. The sweetness combined with tart. Sticky, tenacious, innocence - and temptation? 
> 
> And circus foods.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospital visit number two, and an unexpected tea party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not go into detail about how my September sucked, because I imagine a lot of people have been dealing with stress and anxiety in the current state of the world.
> 
> I will state that I think I have a better grasp on how I'm wiggling my way through the series timeline and characters to eventually get into s5 material. Some of which will be reworked, some of which will remain canon. As you can tell from above, Butch and Tabitha are alive. Or at least, for now...
> 
> Will also do my best to have the next chapter posted before next month. 
> 
> Enjoy?

There were only a handful of security guards around him to watch him spare himself from a self-inflicted faceplant to the desktop. He slammed the heels of his hands to his forehead before sliding them out, fingers tangling in his hair. 

It wasn’t uncommon for him to scream, and certainly the feeling was bubbling its way up from his chest, but the sensation turned heavier until it was a drawn-out groan, accompanied by his shoulders tightening and shaking. 

Not for the first time, he cursed Jeremiah. Since the destruction of the bridges, that green-haired nuisance had caused problem after problem, in ways that the man probably didn’t realize. 

The Van Dahl mansion, pristine and ready for him to make himself comfortable, was inaccessible. Before the city was officially called a no-fly, and no-boating zone, he had managed to secure his essentials, packing them as fast as possible into the boats, before the no-boating zoning laws was enforced.

The three obstetricians that Louise had recommended had, for all purposes, vacated the city prior to the bridges going down. He had tried phoning them the day after the explosions, then gone to each clinic they all practiced at. Despite the hours of his visits shown as being ‘open’ according to the business hours posted to each building he visited, every single one was locked up. 

He would’ve asked if Dr. Sanders would be available to act as his obstetrician, but according to Louise, Sanders had accompanied a couple of high-risk pregnancies out of the city by helicopter, and unsurprisingly, chose not to return. 

Turf wars had all but erupted by the weekend. Challengers had jumped to claim land and buildings, and all that he had to his name so far was City Hall and the block surrounding it. It wasn’t quite a week later, but he knew, with enough man power, effort and time, he could expand his territory. City Hall and its surrounding area would give him a prime, fairly centralized region to control, along with vital access to records and materials. 

While his essentials had been packed into several offices that would be converted into private quarters, the place hardly resembled a home. Tweaks needed to be made but already the breakroom served adequately for a kitchen. Luckily it already included an oven, which was something of a surprise to him. One of the washrooms would need a renovation to include a shower, a necessity for making the place livable. And when it came to designing a currently under-furnished bedroom, he had selected a leather chaise lounge for his bed, dragged in from a different office. The pillows and blankets rescued from the mansion made it a little more comfortable, and remarkably, his leg felt quite better than he expected the first morning after he slept on the chaise lounge.

An unexpected problem, which continued to dwell in the back of his mind as an unsettled feeling, had to do with picking up Butch from Professor Strange’s clinic; he had expected to be in and out, minus Butch. He had it all planned out in advance; bring Tabitha in to see the man who had her heart, and not the diseased man he had become. Kill Butch for the death of his mother by Tabitha’s hand. It was poetic in addition to his long-awaited revenge.

Before the showdown with Ra’s he had been on a tight schedule, ordering Strange to do his work, or else he wouldn’t receive payment when he returned. Strange had no chance to argue, and he certainly looked ready to speak but Oswald waved his goodbye before leaving. 

Perhaps if he had a few seconds to spare, he might’ve noticed something afoot. Instead, he only had the chance to let Professor Strange speak at length when he returned, Tabitha waiting outside the medical room. Butch had been a little wobbly on his feet but his health and colour were restored, the toxins removed from his blood and transfusion complete.

He had no concerns about listening to the aftercare instructions Strange was giving Butch, almost tempted to laugh for how unnecessary it was. Flexing his fingers around the stack of money in his pocket he waited, glancing to the time on the wall, eager to replace the money with his gun. 

Except, as his gaze wandered from the clock and back to Butch, then to the door, ready to invite Tabitha in, he became more aware that Strange was also casting an eye towards him ever so often.

“Mr. Cobblepot, will Mr. Gilzean be in your care after you leave?” 

“Oh, no, that’s not the case.” Fishing his hand out of his pocket, he lifted his hand in a halting gesture. “I suppose you could consider me his patron, I’m paying for his medical expenses, but he’ll be residing with Ms. Galavan, she’s waiting outside.”

“Could you please invite her in? It would certainly help with aftercare if she knew what was required, she’ll be able to assist Mr. Gilzean,” Professor Strange requested. Humoring him, he made his way to the door, only stopping short when Strange’s voice came from over his shoulder, lower in order for Butch to not hear.

“Unless, you wish to hear my offer in private.”

Something about his tone made him want to pull the collar of his coat up, adjust the scarf to cover more of his neck.

He turned around as casually as he could muster, Butch narrowing his eyes. “With recent developments, I’m sure you would find it far more beneficial to keep your money in your pocket. I am willing to make a different exchange with you, to fund for Mr. Gilzean’s transfusion.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Butch commented, his eyebrows settling back down after the surprise ebbed. 

He would agree with him, but the twitch of Professor Strange’s lips, and his cheeks rounding ever so slightly, continued to keep him on edge. “That would depend on what the offer and transaction involve,” he countered.

“Always a businessman.” Strange nodded, a seemingly understanding motion. “I believe I can be of much help to you, Mr. Cobblepot. I know how you prefer to maintain a certain public image. Poised, refined. Anything that needs to be kept discreet done with the utmost precision and, I suppose, diversion. I would not be against making private calls to your home.”

Butch may have not noticed it, but the manner in which Strange cocked his head, eyes slowly measuring him up and down with no further movement of his head, Oswald knew that he knew, was appraising him as worthy for his experiments. He might not be directly his creation, but he would have a hand in shaping his child, and that was wholly unacceptable.

He didn’t stomp his foot, even if he was close to it. “Absolutely not.”

“Oswald, please reconsider,” Strange continued, sounding unoffended but calmly persistent. “You will discover in the following weeks, that the city has lost the majority of its medical professionals. Your condition will require-“

“Condition?” Butch cut into the conversation, which had the benefit of silencing Strange for the time being.

“Have you not told anyone yet?” Professor Strange looked him up and down. “I mean, this is a recent development, and only if you know what to look for, it isn’t visibly obvious.”

Butch took his turn, looking at him, as if he was a statue or piece of art, the nuance escaping him. “You don’t look sick. Not that you can necessarily tell. Being grey, that is a give away.”

“I am not sick, and I do not need medical assistance, at least, not yours. I’ve had experience being your… psychiatric pet rat, and you are not – will never, get your hands on me again! No offers, no deals – you are getting cash payment and this is the last time you will be seeing me!” he snapped, lip curling as he jabbed his finger in Strange’s face.

“Oswald, calm down, this isn’t healthy for your-”

For a second he thought Strange was going to say the word out loud, reveal the secret to the worst person to hear it, yet Butch grabbed the Professor by the lapels of his perfectly crisp white lab coat, hauled him forward with an effortless flex of his arm, dragging him to his toes. “You’ve got the money, right?” 

Butch was looking to him at that point and Oswald blinked, pulled the roll of money from his coat pocket, setting it down on a sterile tray of medical instruments. “Yes, right here.”

“This is your payment, for my surgery, and to keep your mouth shut. Now that I’m back to my old self, it’s very tempting to just resort to old habits. Mob habits. Take out the threat. Let Oswald keep the money. I do owe him for a couple of favours after all.” Oswald resisted the urge to preen, and smirk, but hiked up and out his shoulders, impressed by Butch’s words. “But this is going to be your hush money, so keep. Your damn mouth. Shut.”

“Oswald, you are going to need my help,” Professor Strange argued, or at least tried to, before the clenching of Butch’s fists tightened the hold around his throat. What else he was going to say started and stopped with a stuttered choke.

“Favours.” He laughed, shrugging and pushing his hands out, palms forward. “It’s just like old times. Before I even knew you and your sadistic experiments. Good times. I would let him kill you, he likes doing that, but I think a warning is sufficient enough for you, right?”

“I implore, you’ll be requiring consult, you should take time to consider your options, primarily your lack of options,” Strange insisted, not taking heed of the jerks of Butch’s hands and arms. “Think it over, this isn’t only your health, it’s—”

Oswald never had the chance to give word or signal. Butch threw Strange back, the man nearly bouncing off the counter and the cupboards from the impact. The few vials and equipment that were on the counter shook and rattled but luckily didn’t break, even if Strange nearly crumpled to the floor. 

“That’s enough for me, I’m ready to go, before I hear something you will kill me for,” Butch remarked, ignoring the sputtered groans from Strange and getting his hand around Oswald’s arm, dragging him out of the room.

He barely veiled his expression in time before the door slammed behind them, not just for gawking up to Butch, but also to Tabitha, staring at them suspiciously. “Did you break something in there? You took long enough in there to be suddenly leaving.”

“Doctors,” Butch replied, which wasn’t an answer, or excuse, for Tabitha or Oswald. Butch was right though, if Professor Strange had kept on talking, had mentioned anything to blatantly state he was pregnant, he would’ve killed Butch instantly. The man could not keep a secret at all. For his own health and safety, to keep Tabitha from going after him for more blood, Butch needed to be kept alive.

This didn’t go the way he wanted it, at all.

Favours. Not so simple at this point. 

“Aren’t they all arrogant know-it-alls? Yeah, sometimes they actually come in helpful, in medical emergencies, but a lot of them don’t have the people skills that the job requires. He just needed a reminder to play nice,” Butch continued, jerking his free thumb to the door.

When Tabitha glanced back to him, Oswald rolled his eyes, nodding his head in agreement. “I sadly know Professor Strange far too well. Know what can happen to anyone who so happens to be his patient. The good news is! Butch has been given a clean bill of health, and… along with my payment, I have since given Butch my word that all prior misgivings I have for him, and you, have been wiped clean. I can promise him, and you, that no more attempts on your life will come from my hands, or anyone who works for me.”

“Can’t say I was ever concerned about that, you’ve never been a threat to me,” Tabitha laughed, haughty and shaking her head.

“Well, the truth is, I do now value you, you are of deep importance to me,” he continued, not taking her askance, doubtful look personally. He was bartering as fast as he could, needing to get her agreement, and assistance. “Let’s put it this way, we both have an invested interest in keeping Professor Strange out of our business. He would not hesitate to use me against you and Butch, or you and Butch against me. But it’s not just Strange – Jeremiah now has reasons to be out for our blood. You want his blood, I saw you go after him. He’ll be coming for you next, he already did, and since I intervened, we are going to need each other. We all benefit – with Jeremiah and Strange out of the picture. Until they are no longer a threat, we should consider that a truce is to our benefit. No one makes a move on each other, and if we ever need each other’s help, we will do precisely that.”

Trust hadn’t bonded them at any point in their lives, so he didn’t expect a prompt response. Eyes narrowed, she exhaled deep and slowly, measuring him and his words. “Do you need an answer tonight?

“Within the next twenty-four hours would work. Which, I can’t guarantee will give you long to devise a plan to deal with Professor Strange. He looks unassuming, but he’s unsinkable, a rat in Gotham. He’ll find a way to swim back up the surface, and he’ll find you and Butch. And me. He has his own resources too.” He lifted his finger, asking for a moment of consideration when he remembered a key convincing point. “I’m sure you remember the meek version I was, that you decided to tar and feather? That’s only one thing he’s capable of doing. If he ever found out about your once missing appendage, he would love to add his own personal touch.”

It was Butch who shuddered, groaned and answered first. “No. Absolutely no. Tabby, the gifts you gave me were fun at the time, but I definitely prefer having two hands again. I’m willing to make this truce, but you can take time to decide. I’m with Oswald on this one.”

“I’ll call you, don’t call me.” Tabitha gave him a final parting look, less of a glare than before. Butch moved to her side, looking satisfied with her words, not reconciling but at least no longer threatening.

They were gone from the parking lot first, his own driver waiting for him. 

He clenched his fingers momentarily and sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to chew on his lip. 

There hadn’t been paperwork to seal their deal, only terms they agreed to the following morning. Satisfied that the truce was in effect, Oswald had been able to execute and follow through with other personal and professional goals as the days passed. Seizing City Hall and relocating his personal belongings from the vans into his current abode, between gunfire and bomb-threats of the day to day turf war, that he knew would go on for months until things settled into the barren landscape that once was a liveable city, even with the disparity between the prosperous and the have-nots.

While he orchestrated movements from behind the safe walls of the main office, by maps and directives issued to his growing band of men and women, all willing to serve under him for his protection and the means to get meals and housing, he phoned in regularly to Gotham General, keeping up to date with Louise and how well stocked the hospital was. 

Woke up each morning, wondering if there would be any sightings of Jeremiah or Strange. 

Counted each night as another sleep until his ultrasound.

Despite the battle outside, there were no reported movements of Jeremiah, which he took as a blessing. He had no doubt that the man was plotting his own advances, but waiting for the opportune moment to strike. He only hoped it would be in the form of a land grab, and not an attempt at himself or Tabitha, but he hadn’t heard from her or Butch since their truce was set in stone.

Silence was just another name for waiting, and in that wait, he remained tense. 

After washing up as best he could, rinsing off with the water from the sink, he returned to the chaise lounge, got in under the blankets, tried to turn off his nerves in order to fall asleep.

*

Each morning he did an outside inspection of City Hall, checking in on his units, and their commanding officers. It sounded like the better term to use than security team, now that the city was one big battleground. He updated them with defense plans – and attack plans for the units that were slowly expanding his territory, block by block. 

He wanted to call it the extent of his exercise, spending an hour walking around to talk with the officers, and getting what passed by as fresh air these days. Smoke carried in from the north, and toxins from the bombs had yet to fully dissipate. The GCPD were using their radio to communicate with the mainland, and one of his men had manage to crack their frequency; he got a daily update on what the GCPD considered their accomplishments, as well as movement from the other gangs – but also, what the air and water quality levels were at based off of Fox’s most recent tests.

Yet today was the first day out of his territory, making his way to Gotham General. There was no discrete way to enter the hospital with a full unit as security. He had two officers accompany him from what was normally the ambulance bay, the armoured jeep guarded by the other two security officers.

He had argued with the retailer that he had ordered medical equipment through over the course of three days, until they finally agreed that they would honour the order and ship the equipment. It was either that or the order get cancelled, and losing out on the financial gain was something the retailer wasn’t ready to give up on. At first he was bargaining for luck more than guaranteed protection from Jim and the GCPD but apparently Mr. Wayne had overheard the plan to get equipment into the city and added his name, and financial persuasion, to guarantee safety to complete the transaction.

Oswald understood his motives for ensuring the follow-through was successful when he walked through the corridor, passing by the ICU. There was only one patient inside and he recognised the curls before he saw her face.

What had him scurrying past the unit was a familiar voice, not Selina’s, but Professor Strange’s, coming from behind the closed door. He shifted his gaze from the bed, finding the back of his head a little ways into the room.

His security wasn’t allowed past the lobby, or at least onto the floor where the imaging department was kept. He had gone up the three flights of stairs accompanied by one of the officers, who stayed behind in the stairwell, the other officer guarding the door to the stairwell. 

It was very creepy to be in the hospital and finding it nearly desolate. The second and third floors were blocked and locked up as a safety measure. The fourth and fifth floor were the only areas operational, for the few patients they had. The non-patients allowed in had to have their photos taken, originals kept by staff, and the copies laminated into a photo-ID that they needed to get inside.

Oswald fixed his ID onto his jacket and followed after Louise. “You drank the required amount of water for the ultrasound?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He would be using the washroom before going back downstairs. He quickly discovered that a full bladder especially didn’t set well with a hobble. His cane was of some help but didn’t help to relieve the pressure that shifted, and ached, with every step.

“Before you start putting on weight, if would be wise to get a brace for your leg. Not only will it help with your gait but it will help to relieve pressure on your back, and the rest of your body,” she added, glancing over to him to asses how he was moving currently, which he knew right now looked poor. “It will be important to establish your balance, and how you carry yourself. The last thing you would want to do is fall during your pregnancy.”

When he saw the sign for the imaging department two rooms ahead he nearly sighed in relief. “Where would I go to get… assessed and measured for a brace?”

“They’re at the end of the hall. You can go after your ultrasound.” She opened the door for him, waiting for him to speak to the technician behind the desk. With their barebones staffing he worked the desk as well as all the equipment inside. “Do you wish me to accompany you?”

“No, I should be okay.” The clenching of his chest sent a tremble through his whole body that, for a moment, he thought he would lose the battle. “Thank you.”

Once in a robe, his clothing and cane left in the change room, carrying his ID in hand, he made his way to the room where the ultrasound machine was kept. Tiles cold on his feet had him flinching and easing up onto the bed all the while uttering a silent mantra. Safely lying back he still didn’t relax, the technician explaining the procedure and what he would be doing.

“It’s too early to determine gender, but for the purpose of this ultrasound, we’ll be able to determine how many weeks old the fetus is. And, with what we know of your situation, we are primarily looking to determine its health,” he said, prepping the transducer. Oswald nodded, mumbling a sound of acknowledgement rather than putting anything into words. His gaze was already fixed on the monitor, so when he felt the chill of gel being spread over his skin, in combination with the transducer, he sucked in a breath. 

He kept watching the monitor, frowning as the running commentary passed by in silence for a whole minute. “I don’t see anything.”

“Sometimes, if you don’t know what to be looking for, you won’t see it. But… it’s in there.” Oswald looked back to the technician, his worry abating when he saw his smile. He tapped at the screen, to what must be something significant. It took him a few seconds to discern a small spot. “They’re tiny at this stage. And, though it will be confirmed the next time you come in, once there are more factors to discern with an ultrasound, I think you may be six weeks into your pregnancy.”

He huffed under his breath, coughed and hoped his body would behave with the forced spasm. He wanted to blame air quality, however better it was in the hospital, but his eyes watered, wondering what Jerome would’ve thought. 

He doesn’t know, wouldn’t know. 

“You and your partner must be excited.”

“Yes.” He just managed to answer without getting choked up. “Will I – does it look healthy?”

“They have a heartbeat, but that’s as far as what I can assess right now. You’ll have another ultrasound in your second trimester, if not sooner if one of the doctors deems it required,” the technician explained, studying the screen as well, which was better than watching him and gauging his reactions. “I’ll update your file information and one of the doctors will get in touch with you, set up a meeting.”

Dressing was a slow process, discovering spots where he hadn’t wiped off the gel the first time through. Once he was sufficiently clean, and he planned to use soap and water once he was back at City Hall, he left for the room Louise indicated, his suit jacket unbuttoned. He didn’t know if he’d standing or sitting for getting measured for the brace. Considering how he’d be spending more time on his feet in the next couple of months, this was a necessary investment. One that he would’ve been smart to initiate when Fish originally injured his leg.

He phoned his security team when he entered the room, explaining the delay, and was dialling them when he exited the room a half hour later.

It was thoughts of Professor Strange, within the hospital, logically now a part of the staff, that had him hurrying to the stairwell, needing to get away from the older man as soon as possible. 

He didn’t see who it was who hit him from behind, smacking his head and causing him to topple forward to the ground. 

He wasn’t knocked out cold by the blow. That followed after an injection to his neck, several seconds after the tiled floor blurred and turned black.

*

He heard the voices at first, two as they held a conversation that his awakening mind didn’t comprehend. They struck him as familiar, prompting him to shift into a straighter position from his slumped one, concentrating.

It took only a few seconds for the voices to stop, footsteps approaching from behind. He tensed, and at that he realised that although he was seated, he wasn’t tied up.

“Do I want to know how you got me out of the hospital, not only undetected by my own security team but even hospital personnel?” he asked loudly, haughty as he thrust his chin up, barely dislodging the black sack that covered his head.

He really didn’t need the unknown person leaning down to talk in his ear; even if he had spoken in a whisper, he recognised the voice, and his words were a dead giveaway. 

“Your security has really gone to shit since I’ve left.”

He was growling before the sack was pulled off, twisting to glare up – and up, once Zsasz stood to his full height. “Move away Zsasz, before you decide to put a bullet or knife to my back. You’ve already made your opinion of me clear. Even better, get out of the damn room.” Zsasz ignored him, huffing a laugh. Getting up from his chair, certainly better standard than the kinds of chairs that he saw Zsasz strap men to to torture them, he wheeled around, jabbing his finger for every step he took, Zsasz smirking as he walked backwards. “Funny? I’ll make sure you’re still laughing when I kill you!”

“I do request you take a seat for our conversation, so please, Mr. Zsasz, please stop provoking the bird until we’re finished.” 

Oswald froze as Zsasz’s lips twitched first into a grim line, then something a bit more casual. His hands clamped down on his shoulders and steered him back to the chair, grip just as firm as he remembered. Oswald was unable to shrug them off, let alone dig his heels in, recognising the voice that called from the other side of the room. 

“You would find the chair at the table more comfortable, I promise, you aren’t here for being tortured.”

He could make out a round table that was probably intended for a kitchen, rather than the sitting room it looked like it occupied. Certainly the three chairs around the table looked like they should be in a living room, fully upholstered and comfortable, with the table done up to match the chairs, with place settings, tea cups and tea pots. Aside from the table and chairs, the room was otherwise empty, the electric candelabra casting only a faint glow, the fireplace behind it unused.

He didn’t sit down right away, gazing up at the lighting fixture, the shapes of the room distinguished in shadows, the angles familiar despite the walls barren and the room otherwise undecorated. “Wait… this is the Falcone mansion.”

A voice called from the kitchen, or so he imagined, remembering the layout of the home. “The mess was a source of distress! I confess, I had to redress!”

“He’s going to shriek.” Zsasz’s hands didn’t loosen, and he could hear the smirk in his damn voice as he spoke.

“He’s got the beak!”

“Sit Mr. Cobblepot, before you cause yourself unnecessary stress.”

“You’ve… got to be kidding me!” Forced into the empty seat opposite of Jeremiah, Oswald bounced back onto his feet, already lunging forward hands first, but Zsasz grabbed him before he could get too far. The man was certainly delighting in manhandling him back into the chair, even shoving the chair in as close as possible to limit how much he could move, tall arms bracketing either side of the chair and his stomach nearly flush against the edge of the table. Jeremiah sat in a less confining chair, expression beatific once Oswald was trapped in his seat. “This is abduction!”

“I should probably be taking this.” While his hands were still close, Zsasz reached into Oswald’s jacket, pulling out his switchblade. “When he gets angry enough, he will get violent.”

“Case in point, when I fired that round of bullets into your shoulder.” He jerked his gaze to Zsasz, a firm reminder that he’d be wanting his weapon when this fiasco was over, before sneering to face Jeremiah. “I hope it still hurts.”

“I understand that you have protective urges, and that it had very little to do with Ms. Galavan.” Jeremiah removed his gloves, setting them to the right side of his place setting, in front of his cup and saucer. “And, that does require a heart-to-heart between us, to set up terms for the future.”

“No it doesn’t.” He squeezed his temples under the onslaught of a headache, one he didn’t have upon waking up. It had all to do with the unwanted company, but by the looks of it, he was the guest to this madhouse and forbidden to leave. “I know what I saw in that building. You would’ve attacked me if I didn’t attack you first.”

Jeremiah didn’t have the chance to contradict, Jervis bringing a three-tiered stand into the room, each plate teeming with food. “I’ll give it to Falcones, Carroll rest their souls, that kitchen is designed for hosting parties.” 

Oswald eyed the food, hating that he did feel his stomach flutter with hunger. He was too nervous to eat before going to the hospital and the scones and finger sandwiches did look appetizing, even if Jervis had made them. He hadn’t heard anyone else about, only the three men talking. 

He reached for one of the sandwiches, only stopping when Jervis pushed one of the two teapots towards him. “Herbal. No caffeine for you, since you are drinking for-”

Jervis, sitting to his right, made it too easy to kick him in the shin, which got a sharp cry from him. 

“Penguin – Oswald, it’s no secret.” Jeremiah shook his head, pouring tea – a rich black blend as Oswald could tell by the scent wafting over the small table. He bit back a frown, craving proper caffeine, and stared while Jeremiah stirred two measures of sugar into the cup. “We are here to talk, negotiate, freely.”

“There is nothing to negotiate. And I’m only agreeing to stay because I’m hungry.” With that in mind he snagged the two sandwiches he’d been eying. While he was occupying himself with that task, and keeping an eye on the teapot set down to Jeremiah’s right, Jervis poured the herbal into Oswald’s cup. It smelled, unfortunately, quite nice too.

“What isn’t a secret?” Zsasz asked, still standing. Oswald didn’t look back, mostly because the man didn’t deserve the recognition, but also not wanting to give him the chance to inquire. 

“You mean to tell us you haven’t you heard?” Jervis asked after pouring himself the herbal tea. He snickered before setting the pot down, flicking his finger from Jeremiah to Oswald. “His brother had relations with this bird.”

“Wow.” Jervis shook with laughter, the sound short-lived as his hand continued to shake in amusement to Zsasz’s stunned response. “Your taste in men has gone from bad to worse. No offense.”

“Fully understood.” Jeremiah quirked an eyebrow after taking a testing sip of his tea, humming his approval before taking a longer drink. “My opinion of my brother has always been lowly. A failure in life, twice over.”

“Ah, discussion finished. Now that everyone knows that Jerome and I were together, let’s eat and I’ll be on my way.” He took a bite of the tuna salad sandwich, reluctant to admit that Jervis had made the filling perfectly, not too dry or moist. 

“There is more to be discussed than that,” Jeremiah pointed out, taking a scone.

“Hmm.” Finishing his mouthful, Oswald shook his head, eyes flashing in a manner that was far from apologetic. “That’s as much as I’m going to discuss with present company. I prefer to keep my personal life, personal. Private.”

“Not even when it concerns me?” Jeremiah inquired, a muscle in his cheek suggesting he would’ve been smirking.

He was tempted to take his butter knife, point it at Jeremiah if not stab him with it, but that was the point that he realised his own place setting lacked utensils, while Jervis and Jeremiah both had knives and spoons. “Especially when it comes to you.” 

“Come, we are civilised folk. This is not the time to provoke,” Jervis chided, shaking his head, steadying his cup rather than sip. “He has your best interest at heart, so it’s about time to start.”

“You are going to need me,” Jeremiah stated, a carefully quartered piece of scone in his hand.

“No, I won’t.” Only getting a couple mouthfuls of food in, his stomach protested that everyone wanted him to keep talking. He shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, smirking as Jeremiah waited on him. Perhaps he should keep him waiting longer, but instead he relented, licking his lips clean after. “I have never failed in establishing myself, even in troubled times. I don’t sink, I swim to new foundations and rebuild, recreate my own image if needed.”

Jeremiah finished his bite, expression interested, almost in agreement, but sighed, gaze turning sympathetic. “But what happens when everyone finds out?”

“I’ll be well established at that point, that no one, or at least no one who is smart enough to keep their mouths shut, would try to question me. Or attack,” he countered, curling his fingers back, not clenching his hand but deciding that pointing at Jeremiah might be not be the smartest thing to do. “It’s worked for me… three times now? I’m confident in where I stand right now, and if you try to do anything to contradict me, I’ll make sure you get something worse than bullet-holes from me.”

“Why not?” He had almost forgotten that Zsasz was also in the room. “You’ve worked with Jim. You even worked with Ed and Lee, which was guaranteed to go wrong even if you hadn’t worked with them.”

“This isn’t working with… Jeremiah.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say Valeska, but Jeremiah had already addressed him by his first name. He also didn’t want to tread back into personal jokes with Zsasz. Thinking about ‘The other Victor’ and ‘The other Valeska’ struck separate chords that plucked and stung, old but fresh. 

He couldn’t say the words. It felt like his own betrayal to Zsasz, that for all the time they worked together, when they trusted each other, he never told him that he was an Omega.

“Would you like to tell him, or shall I?” Jeremiah’s eyes were far too bright in the dim lighting, smug and ready to divulge.

“There are so many ways to say it,” Jervis added, shrugging a shoulder, trying to play it casual. “Jeremiah has invested interests in Cobblepot, because Jerome planted his seed into his pot.” 

“That’s the way you say it?” Oswald huffed under his breath, and at least, shared the same confused, dismayed look that he and Jeremiah gave Jervis.

“He knocked him up – bottom’s up.” He sipped his tea, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Why are you even here?” Oswald didn’t wait to give him another kick, pleased to watch Jervis sputter tea onto his bow tie. He and Jeremiah had been doing most of the talking, Jervis spending his time making random rhyme or watching in silence, a spectator at a tennis game by the way his eyes darted back and forth. 

Jervis dabbed at his bowtie after he wiped his chin. His amusement had faltered in favour of righting himself, his speech terse when he finally side-eyed him. “You can consider me your intermediary.” Setting his napkin back to his lap he tilted his head slightly, trying to look like a model of propriety once again. “Also, there are some details you might be interested in, concerning your Arkham vacation.” 

“What concerns me, is having a proper upbringing, and I am here to make sure that the Valeska name is honoured,” Jeremiah interceded, giving a short but pointed look to Jervis, a silent request to wait. “I am speaking on behalf my dearly departed brother-”

“He wasn’t dear three minutes ago,” Oswald huffed out, taking a sip of his tea, lavender and jasmine a perfect complement. 

“I am all that’s left of the Valeska name. I have invested interest.” Jeremiah didn’t move past setting his tea cup back down, but for his boring gaze, it felt like he was leaning towards him. “I am the child’s uncle and will be the child’s legal guardian.” 

“And I am the one carrying the child! My body, my decision – I am taking care of this baby, you have no say in the matter! And, considering your… shall I say, upbringing, by your mother?” Oswald silently cheered, seeing Jeremiah bite back a flash of hostility, the tension around his eyes the only indication that he struck a nerve. “I was brought up by a strong, caring, doting maternal figure. I had my own, good, role-model on how to properly raise a child, unlike you.”

Jeremiah raised a finger, not waving it at him, but declaring his own point. “She raised you to be a renowned criminal.” 

“What can I say?” He managed to keep his expression pleasant, but his tone became smug. “Career-oriented as I am, I will raise my child and provide for him – or her, at the same time. I will find a balance.”

“What about the child unseen? The boy by the name of Martin.” Jervis side-eyed Oswald, mouth twitching in distaste. “That is far from model behaviour. Your misdeeds paint you in a style far graver.”

“Your information is out-dated,” Oswald countered, trying to not react to the silence in the room, knowing that somewhere behind him Zsasz loomed, listened. “Martin is alive, and was moved out of Gotham for his own safety. He was a pawn that Ms. Falcone attempted to… take me out with.”

He waited, the silence stretching on. Muscle in his jaw twitching he coiled his fingers into a fist, digging his knuckles into the arm of his chair. Prayed for Zsasz to say something.

The quiet pervaded.

“It’s all lies!” he shouted, lip trembling.

“I don’t hear any evidence to the contrary.” Jervis shrugged a shoulder, the brim of his hat not hiding the gleeful cast of his gaze. “Sad to say your story is sounding very airy.”

“Seeing as no witnesses have stepped forward to validate your story, I would believe that the boy being dead is solid fact.” Jeremiah sighed, shaking his head faintly. “I will not let a child-murderer raise my brother’s child. I will become guardian after he or she is--”

“Yeah.” Oswald flinched when Zsasz spoke up, the exaggerated syllables sounding like signing over every biological right he had. He cringed as he heard his former right-hand man draw close again, ducking his head to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. “It’s not right.”

“See? He agrees,” Jervis added, gesturing to Zsasz as he stepped between their chairs.

“To let this Mad Man pass judgement on what should and should not be good and just behaviour amongst family is immoral, not to mention disgusting.”

Oswald refused to look up, even as his eyes widened. However, he did see Jervis’ features twist, realising that Zsasz hadn’t been in agreement with him. 

“What!?”

“Let us all be honest, who among us have told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to the GCPD?” Zsasz snorted as he looked from Jeremiah to Oswald, Oswald only realising that he was bringing attention to him by the fingers that grazed his shoulders. “The kid is alive, though you would have to ask the Riddler as to where he is now, and last I heard, he was recovering in a shared room in an underground clinic, with his former boss no less.”

“Victor,” Oswald breathed, shoulders relaxing, nearly trembling when Zsasz patted him.

“Jerome? Really?” He half-crouched, half-leaned in to whisper in his ear. Oswald could only nod, thankful that he was still too petrified from the near miss to move his arm, to curl his hand around Zsasz’s arm, draped over the top of the chair. “You could’ve told me, at any point. It wouldn’t have made any difference to me.” 

“You would’ve kept it secret?” he asked softly, inclining his head towards Zsasz to keep the conversation between them.

“I would’ve, not that you can now.” There was a hint of amusement to which Oswald rolled his eyes, tipping his head back upright. It was with that small movement that he felt Zsasz lean closer, breath too close to his neck. During their private conversation he hadn’t noticed that Zsasz had tugged on his scarf to loosen it enough to free space between the fabric and his skin. “So did he…?” 

He felt the warm breath along his neck, trailing down from his ear before creeping forward. “Yeah,” he whispered, though with his hand still on the arm of the chair, he loosened his fingers, gesturing down to his thigh. 

“Huh.” Zsasz pulled back a fraction, still hovering, but less intrusive. “You owe me a favour, but… if you need me to deal with the other Valeska, I’m free.”

“I owe you?” Oswald nearly balked, his voice rising enough to cut short the whispered conversation between Jeremiah and Jervis. “You got me tossed into Arkham!”

“Just a small one.” Pinching his fingers, Zsasz grinned and stood, shifting to stand behind his chair.

Jeremiah and Jervis separated, Jeremiah sitting straight again in his chair. “Co-guardianship. I have some amount of sway over several gangs that are fighting for dominion in the city. When word gets out, they will view you as an easy target. Having me as co-guardian will mean I can ascertain that no one will threaten you.”

“I have dealt with threats before. I am not concerned about that.” Oswald started to tighten his scarf, winding it securely around his neck, but with current company already knowing, he dropped his hands, letting the scarf fall from his shoulders, baring his neck entirely. Letting them know that he wasn’t intimidated by them, or anyone else. “I always come out on top.”

Jervis snickered, still curled slightly towards Jeremiah. “Everyone in Arkham knows that.” He continued to grin, dark eyes lascivious as they raked over him. “Well, maybe I should rephrase that. I would tend to believe you’d want to know what happened after you conceived.”

It took a dream for him to remember how he came about having his heat in the Asylum. He wanted to believe that was all the gap in his memory that he had, but the way Jervis looked at him made him question his certainty. “I remember what happened during my heat,” Oswald replied tightly, curling his fingers over the arm of the chair again. “Jerome was by my side, most of the time.”

“A doting mate, if I must admit,” Jervis conceded, tipping his head towards to Jeremiah to nod. “Yet, a favour of me, did he writ. Tell me, do you recall how you made your great escape? If not, I can ensure your memories resume their shape.” 

“Information.” Jeremiah cut in, Oswald reluctantly looking to him, knowing now where they were going with this subject. “Everyone knows you covet any little detail you get your hands on. The most valuable commodity in your little black market. And considering it is information pertinent to you and your situation, I will grant it to you, if you agree to let me raise the child with you. Protect them from outside forces.”

“Just a little tick tock, and I can reverse the clock.” The fingers that he had in his jacket pocket, a casual position with his elbow positioned on the arm of his own chair, latched onto a chain, pulling slowly until a pocket-watch dangled from his fingers. “All the things that were for naught, will no longer be forgot.” 

“Do we have a deal?” Jeremiah asked.

From the corner of his eye Oswald saw the corner of Jeremiah’s mouth twitch up, his own gaze locked on the pocket-watch. Jeremiah already knew his answer. 

“I… agree to your deal."


End file.
